


mind games

by mitzvahmelting



Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst, Dehumanization, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fisting, Intersex Loki (Marvel), M/M, Memory Alteration, Mind Manipulation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, it's complicated idk, thor's here but it's not really him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: Grandmaster plops Loki into a series of alternate universe simulations. For fun.Problem is, to Loki, they feel real. Like he's a criminal, and he's been a criminal for as long as he can remember, and no, he doesn't remember being a magic-user, and he doesn't remember Sakaar.Bits of Loki's subconscious start bleeding through and affecting the simulations. And though his memories are wiped at the end of every session, there's this lingering deja vu...





	1. Prison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/gifts).



> for [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites) for the prompt:
>
>> Loki's getting a little too comfortable. The Grandmaster wants to fix that.
>> 
>> Á la Gabriel's fake universes in Supernatural, he keeps throwing Loki into new alternate universes where he can break him down again and again and again. He makes Loki a new bitch at a prison, with the Grandmaster as the rich, well-treated inmate that basically runs the place; he makes Loki his secretary at a fast-paced office job, and slowly breaks him into doing a lot more than typing; he makes Loki a member of the Grandmaster's crime syndicate who's just been revealed as a CI.
>> 
>> The thing is? Loki is starting to remember them from one game to the next, and is certain how to break himself out. 
>> 
>> \+ It's all dubious consent with different threats and leverages each time. The Grandmaster experiments with different kinds of torture.  
> ++ It's a mission success when Loki cries on his cock.  
> +++ When they finally return to the prime universe, the Grandmaster is now like, the centre of Loki's thoughts, as he's been the only pillar the same throughout all these universes.
> 
>   
> uhhh disclaimer that the writing isn't super great and i'm just letting this be like, a low-pressure project for me. also if i write your fav minor character ooc it's because it's literally not them, just a simulation of pseudo-them. 

En Dwi usually doesn’t mess with his pets’ minds. Really, it’s… it’s pretty invasive, and it’s sort of like using x-ray vision on a box of chocolates. Such a waste to spoil the surprise, when all the real fun is in, you know, picking up each little morsel and biting into them to drain what sticky syrup hides within.

He only messes with a pet’s mind when he… when he _feels_ like it. It’s a rare thing.

But Loki is a tough nut to crack. Loki’s refusals and rejections and reluctances pile up until En Dwi’s _tired_ of it, tired of making compromises that he really oughtn’t need to make. He’s the Grandmaster, and when something stops being fun, he stops doing it.

So he dips a bit into Loki’s mind and just, ugh, the _baggage._ Lots of it. Everything about his core personality is so tangled up with his history, webs and knots of hurt feelings and torture and _Daddy loved you more than me!_ to such an extent that En Dwi feels so much more tired than when he began. Like, no matter how much fun Loki manages to have on Sakaar, he’s always going to be chewing on stuff like this in the background.

If only En Dwi could just… remove it, like a tumor.

But permanent memory deletion can get messy, and you never know if you’re about to delete something you might need later, and… there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t permanently impair Loki’s personality. En Dwi likes breaking his toys in the _fun_ way, not the actual, er, broken way.

But there is an alternative.

A pocket universe. A particularly true-to-life simulation. A little roleplay sesh to keep things fresh, that’s all. En Dwi gives a skeleton script to the (for lack of a better word) engine that runs the whole thing. He doesn’t prescribe all the details; the magic will fill that out.

The fun is in watching the clever little details unfold.

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺

(The first time, though he doesn’t know that,) Loki wakes up in prison.

This isn’t anything new, really. Loki’s been in and out of prisons his whole life. If you asked Mother, she would sneer and say _predictable,_ and _he wants more money, doesn’t he? Won’t sucker me into another one of his get rich quick schemes. Just like his father,_ and then she’d spit on the floor. Lovely woman.

At least he’s in the Andromeda galaxy, this go around. They’ve got a galactic convention about ethical treatment of inmates, so his lodgings are likely better than last time, and _speaking_ of last time, where is Fandral, the _rascal—_

“Food,” grunts the guard, and a tray clatters in. Loki shifts to get out of bed and his shoulder twists in displeasure – an injury sustained in the getaway, trying to toss a three-hundred-pound sack of titanium alloy into the back of Fandral’s truck while Fandral was already _driving_ and – Loki remembers the man mouthing out “Sorry” in the rearview mirror and speeding away. _Bastard._

The guard is lingering outside the cell – a Khrelan, wearing a guard’s uniform over her semi-transparent exoskeleton. Loki retrieves the tray and eyes her cautiously. “What,” he asks, “have you spit in it? Waiting for me to eat it so you can gloat to your friends?”

“You’ve got a buddy moving in this afternoon,” she clicks out. “We reserved this cell for him, but there weren’t enough spaces elsewhere to put you. He’s not gonna be happy seeing his cell already occupied.”

Loki frowns. He sets the tray on the bed before stepping forward against the bars and crossing his arms at the Khrelan. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Just warning you, greenie. Not my problem if you don’t listen.”

Then she leaves.

He picks at the nutritious mush she left with him. It shouldn’t be an issue, he tells himself. He’s been stuck with many undesirables over the years, and there’s never been a problem. His scars – around his mouth, his eyes, the natural results of a youth spent forging alliances with mobsters and radicals – usually do enough to keep his cellmates from bothering him.  The only downside to having a cellmate was when his cousin Thor used to visit. Getting a paternalistic dressing-down from family was bad enough, and worse in front of an audience. But Thor doesn’t visit anymore and… prison is usually quiet for Loki. A reprieve from the world up and until he makes his escape.

Not enough time to hatch an escape before the mystery inmate shows up—

 

Before he knows it, three hours have passed, though it felt like only minutes, and there’s more Khrelan guards trotting down the hallway with a prison-garbed humanoid man in tow. “You folks are top of the line, really,” babbles the man, “so efficient! I loved those showers, you really get, ooh, all the little nooks and crannies.”

They stop in front of Loki’s cell, and Loki stands tall despite the twinge in his shoulder, keeping his face blank. The new inmate smiles, saying, “Well, what do we have here?”

“Last minute guest,” explains the Khrelan. “We’ll make sure he’s on his best behavior, Mr. Gast.”

“Oh, nonono, don’t call me that here. We’re all about the, uh, due process, you know, I’m just like any other prisoner.” He thrusts his arms behind himself, “Go on, hold me close, Cynthia, like I’m still cuffed. Let’s do this right.”

So the guards maneuver the new prisoner into Loki’s cell, halfheartedly, like they’re afraid to touch him, and something about all of this is making Loki’s skin crawl. “Alright,” says the prisoner, still with his hands behind his back, “Unlock my cuffs.”

The nearest guard makes an uncomfortable chirping sound. “You’re not wearing any cuffs, Mr. Gast.”

“Gregory, they’re imaginary cuffs,” sing-songs Gast, “and you need to imaginarily unlock them, _please_ , Gregory, show some respect to the institution.”

“Yes, Mr. Gast.”

When Gast is freed, the cell door is locked once more, and the guards skitter off. Gast stretches his hands in front of himself to admire his fingernails, which do happen to be a bright shade of blue. “Well,” says Gast, “ _once more unto the brig!_ Isn’t that what they say? No… uh, no matter. How are you doing, shortcake?”

For a moment, Loki forgets to speak. This is… this must be the strangest man he’s ever met. Overconfidence oozes out of Gast and Loki finds himself… discomfited. He asks, carefully, “Why were the guards afraid of you?”

Gast looks directly at him, for a long moment, before breaking into a small, satisfied smile. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Should I?” challenges Loki, reflexively.

Entirely too amused, Gast makes a face and clucks his tongue. After a pause, he says, “I think you should, buddy. You _did_ steal 40,000 units of titanium from my company.”

“You’re the…” and it clicks, because this is a man whose face stares out from newspapers all the damn time, “you’re the CEO of Sakaar Industries?”

“The one and only.”

Too cautious to move, Loki studies the man. He’s not _afraid_ of Gast, physically. Even unarmed, Loki is a standout fighter, sly and quick. But with the way the guards were treating Gast… if it _did_ come to blows, either Loki would drop by Gast’s hand, or the guards would rush in to _punish_ him for hurting Gast. He’s locked in close quarters with a man who holds all the power, as well as a personal grudge against Loki.

“It was,” Loki tries to smile amicably, “nothing personal.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t!” Gast exclaims cheerfully, “We’ve never met, of course! How could it be personal?”

“If you don’t mind my asking, for what crime are you in prison?”

Gast chuckles. “Oh, you know. This and that. White-collar stuff. It’s just a formality. Did you know Sakaar Industries contributes 56% of the tax revenue here on Fluva IV?” He paces aimlessly around the small space of the cell, smiling all the while, sneaking glances at Loki as he passes. “In a couple weeks they’ll pardon me and we’ll get on with business. Slap on the wrist. But, see, here’s the thing.”

Gast stops pacing. He turns to face Loki directly. “Usually, on my little vacations, I get to have my own room.”

Loki bares his palms. “It’s not a problem. I’ll be very quiet; you won’t notice I’m here.”

Gast raises an eyebrow. “I also get the bottom bunk.”

Somewhere inside of himself, Loki is growling in outrage at having to submit to this sort of thing. But he is nonetheless a pragmatist. “I prefer the top anyway,” he murmurs, and immediately begins to switch the bedsheets.

 

The guards come round three times before dinner. “Would you like a book, Mr. Gast?” “Do you need the restroom, Mr. Gast?” Loki half expects them to offer champagne. And then they do.

It is… grating. Especially in the face of… Loki’s gone _weeks_ in solitary confinement, in the dark, without food or water or facilities. It was a different prison on a different planet, but even this prison isn’t all roses. And Gast keeps talking about how he loves _kicking it rough_ with the ‘real’ criminals.

At dinnertime, they serve Gast a meal that, while not gourmet, is at least recognizable as food. Fish and grains, with some sort of fruit juice. They almost forget entirely to feed Loki before Gast reminds them about his “roomie” who, despite hiding silently on the top bunk, still very much requires sustenance. So they come back with a tray of nutritious mush, again, and that is that.

From below, Gast hands Loki the less-appetizing meal tray, and Loki reluctantly accepts it. They meet eyes over the railing, but Loki retreats back to the center of the bed.

“You know,” remarks Gast, “your eyes look kinda funny like this.”

Loki sighs. “I’m perfectly aware of my disfigurement.”

“And your mouth? What, uh, what’s the story there?”

“Dwarven mafia on Yeolon IX.”

 _“Fascinating_. Absolutely fascinating. I, uh, couldn’t have come up with that if I tried.”

 _Of course you couldn’t,_ thinks Loki bitterly, _you’ve probably never been outside the star system. Everything you’ve ever wanted just fell into your lap, isn’t that right, Mr. Gast?_ The dinner mush is more gray than green this time, which means it’s less acidic than the last meal, which means there are fewer fruit and vegetables and more filler. Loki is working out the cost-benefit of actually eating it. He knows it will upset his stomach, and there probably aren’t enough nutrients to make that worthwhile.

From below, Gast asks, “Are you hungry, Loki?”

A beat of silence as Loki’s gaze narrows on the juncture of the cell bars with the ceiling. “I never told you my name.”

“They _did_ brief me on my cell mate. Are you hungry?”

“Of course I’m hungry.”

“Yes, yes you are, good. Listen, I’ve got a proposal.”

Immediately, Loki has an idea of what that proposal might be. It bursts up with a flash of intuition - the trade of his body for access to Gast’s special amenities. But… Loki has fallen low, but never _that_ low. Even in this situation, he has only to survive the next couple of weeks before things return to normal. No reason to sacrifice his pride already. He can handle this, without… doing that.

“Loki, are you listening to me?”

“I’m not interested.”

After a moment’s pause, the springs of the bottom bunk squeak as Gast stands up once again, planting his palms on the top bunk’s railing to pout at Loki. “I haven’t even said anything, yet!”  

“I mean no offense,” Loki explains carefully, “but I really don’t require any of your assistance in this matter.”

“The fish - it’s not poisoned, Lo-Lo, I _promise.”_

 _Not poisoned in the literal sense,_ Loki corrects in his mind. The nickname is unsettling, as well, but Loki ignores that, saying instead, “then I’m sure you will enjoy it, Mr. Gast.”

“Oh, no,” Gast laughs, “ _I_ wasn’t going to eat it. I’ve got three days left of my, uh, strict respiration diet, and Topaz would be so disappointed if I, uh, broke my streak just ‘cause of a little prison sentence.”  His eyes sparkle as he considers Loki, and then he sighs dramatically and sits again on the bottom bunk, out of Loki’s view. “I guess it will just go bad, then. Though this _does_ surprise me, Loki. I thought, well… I thought that someone with as _extensive_ a criminal record as you might take, you know, _any_ opportunity to restore a little dignity to his daily routine.”

“Dignity?” Loki barks out a laugh, “is that what you call dignity?”

“What’s that supposed to mean, sugarpuff?”

Loki swings his upper body over the railing to peer down at the man below him. Almost hysterically, he growls, “I’m not selling myself for a piece of mediocre fish filet.”

Gast balks at that. “Selling yourself? Selling what?”

“I’m sure you know very well _what_ , Mr. Gast.”

“Oh, you mean, uh, selling _yourself?”_ Gast looks up at him strangely, mirthfully. “Honey, I’m not buying! I was just, you know, gonna give you my dinner.”

Loki doesn’t trust it. There’s no reason to trust it. No reason for this man to bear any goodwill to Loki, and even if it wasn’t about sex, surely there would be something  underhanded about it in the end, because that’s how it _always_ goes. “Like I said,” Loki mutters, retreating back up to his space, “I don’t require your charity.”

Two weeks, he tells himself. Just two weeks, and this man will be gone, and maybe Loki can focus on something other than… self-defense.

A deep sigh from the bottom bunk, this one less performative than before. And Loki can barely make out Gast muttering to himself, “Hmmf. Selling himself. Like anyone oughtta buy what they already own,” and the world cuts to black.


	2. Mob

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning - guns.

_Too prickly._ That one was too prickly, En Dwi resolves to himself, and he scraps that universe.

This process of finding the right combination of personality, setting, character motivation, and power structure… it’s a bit like En Dwi is an artist, and Loki is his muse. There are so many different environments which could act as foils for Loki, but En Dwi wants to find the one that makes everything _pop._ It’s got to _feel_ right.

Even if it doesn’t feel right the way the prime universe feels, it needs to feel right in its own special way. There’s always something special to squeeze out of these roleplay scenarios, if you keep an open mind.

Like that scarring around prisoner Loki’s mouth. There is no doubt that the scarring was a truth-adjacent addition to the universe supplied by Loki’s subconscious, and… and En Dwi is so excited to eventually return to the prime universe and find out what the _real_ story is there.

But… it’s too soon to go back. He hasn’t gotten the payoff he’s craving.

That Loki was too prickly, like En Dwi would have to spend _days and days_ in that dreary prison just to break through Loki’s outer shell and taste some of that squishy inside. So maybe he should try a scenario where Loki is already, er, broken in.

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺

“Some ale for myself, and a daiquiri for my friend here,” says a familiar voice, the man taking the high barstool beside Loki’s. His voice is tempered enough to avoid undue attention from the other patrons, which, in addition to the club music and dim lights, should be enough to shield the man’s identity.

“I’m not your friend,” gripes Loki.

Thor’s broad hand claps his shoulder, gently but firmly. “Of course you are,” claims the detective inspector, more or less cheery about it. “Of course we’re friends; we care about each other and share so much with one another.”

“I don’t care for you a whit.”

“And yet, here you are,” says Thor, and he drinks down half his ale as soon as it’s set in front of him. The burn makes his face twist, but not unpleasantly. Loki stirs his frozen, pinkish cocktail.

If they were on the _Sakaarii_ side of town, the drinks would be better, because Loki fashioned the menu himself, and tested the drinks, and trained the bartenders, because no one else in this town knows anything about _presentation_ and it was all he could do to distract himself from the bloodshed, and the anguish of being kept under another man’s thumb, but -

But this little club is way beyond the city outskirts, a necessary neutral rendezvous, so who is he to complain.

“What is it you want from me this time, Detective?” Loki asks him, blandly.

“Have you given any more thought to testifying?” queries Thor, for what must be the fiftieth time. “We can place you in witness protection. It’s ready to go the moment you say the word.”

“No.”

“I wish-” Thor begins, with a knot of frustration in his voice, but he stops himself. Begins again: “I wish you would let us protect you.”

“Your protection is worthless if you can’t even predict the movements of your enemy without an informant,” murmurs Loki, still not looking at Thor directly. “Two days in a new city under a new name, and a sniper would take me out. You know that.”

“Then, police custody. Until we can ensure every criminal element under the Grandmaster’s control is safe behind bars.”

“Even behind bars, he holds power. Do you understand that, Detective? Many of _your_ people kneel to him as well.”

“We can hide you in the wilderness with an armed guard.”

“An armed guard who would turn their weapons on me and claim a suicide.” The drink is sweet, sweet enough to comfort but not sweet enough to lift his mood. Loki pushes the glass slightly across the bar and away from himself. “The only reason I’ve lived this long is by trusting _no one._ Especially not the cops.”

“You trust _me_ ,” says the detective inspector, so certain of himself and the truth of that statement that it makes Loki’s stomach twist.

“No,” corrects Loki. “You saved my life and I owe you a debt. I don’t trust you; I’ve simply resigned myself to working with you _despite_ my distrust.”

Though, to be fair, he _had_ accepted the daiquiri. It could have been laced. He hadn’t watched the bartender prepare the drink, at least not carefully enough.

Thor swigs the ale and stares bitterly at the bar. “This week,” he says. “This week, we’re going to start moving in on the Sakaarii suppliers. See if we can’t staunch the flow of weapons, now that we know where and when they’re coming. We would never have made it this far without your help, Loki.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” counters Loki, “your leakers may yet still ruin that undertaking.”

“I’m working on that,” Thor says. “Still, we owe you so much. I wish you would let me repay you.”

“If our debt is finally squared away, then I’ll take my leave and you won’t hear from me again.”

“Loki…”

Grinning mirthlessly, Loki chokes out, “What do you expect from me, Detective?” He gestures helplessly with his empty hands, “it’s _safe_ with the Sakaarii. Your people can make no such guarantee. So what am I supposed to do?”

Thor’s gaze narrows. “The safety among the Sakaarii is an illusion, Loki, and you know it. You’re _scared_ of him, and he’s _hurting_ you-”

“I’m managing-”

“-and you know, you have to know, that if you gave me the chance, I would lay down my _life_ to protect you from him.” Thor’s voice is tremulous, sincere. “Please, Loki, you _must_ know that.”

His chest hurts, and his throat hurts, and his eyes hurt, and he just can’t stand to be in the bar any longer. “You shouldn’t,” he says to the detective inspector, “give your life for mine… it wouldn’t be worth it.”

Thor’s expression shatters into despair. “Loki…”

“Good evening, Detective,” Loki says curtly, as he stands from the barstool and then walks out.

 

Grandmaster’s regular haunt is the _Lost & Found _, a club that sits on the riverbank of Sakaarii territory. In the morning, as always, Loki is cleaning up the lounge, clearing away used glasses and treating the questionable stains left on the couch cushions. The club is mostly leather furnishings contrasted with sleek white marble countertops, and every accessory is brightly colored: neon lamps, tropical ashtrays, bright red circular rugs.

It’s garish, ugly, but it’s what the boss wants.

“Boss wants you,” says 1-4-2 as she exits from the back room, replacing her wallet down the front of her dark jeans.

“What for?”

“Not my problem,” she tosses over her shoulder as she exits the front, the frosted glass door slamming shut behind her.

It’s early in the day for Grandmaster to call for Loki. They do have… an arrangement of sorts, those evenings when Grandmaster wants a familiar face in his bed. Other times, he pretties up Loki as arm candy for important business arrangements. But if there were a business meeting today, Loki would have known about it, wouldn’t he?

He leaves the rag and cleaning spray on the bar, and he checks his reflection in the mirror, adjusting himself to look presentable, before finding the hidden handle in the wall’s leather upholstery and pushing in the door.

Two bodyguards, in matching bright-yellow dresses with rifles and bandoliers slung low around their waists, stand at attention in the front of the office, dark sunglasses shielding their faces. They ignore Loki, and he ignores them.

The back of Grandmaster’s office is a wall of windows overlooking the riverbank. In front of those windows, a grand desk, and a spinning chair (the fact that it is a spinning chair is very important to Grandmaster). The style of furnishings in this room is more reserved than in the club, but only because, when Grandmaster is here, the circus is not in the design of the room but the actions of its inhabitants.

“Kiki,” Grandmaster squeals, opening his arms as if for a hug but not moving from his seat in the chair. “You kept me waiting!”

Grandmaster’s wearing his full suit, including the vest and tie and jacket, as if this is a formal occasion. And he doesn’t dismiss the bodyguards before speaking to Loki. Loki’s stomach sinks into the floor. “I...” Loki wavers, then settles on, “I’m sorry, boss.”

Grandmaster beckons him, still smiling jovially. Still, the bodyguards stand behind Loki at the front of the room.

It is around this moment that Loki realizes he’s been made.

He walks stoically forward, and, when instructed, perches himself in Grandmaster’s lap. The man leans forward just enough to tuck his chin into Loki’s shoulder and nose at the base of Loki’s jaw, then he wraps his arms around Loki, linking his hands in front like a cage. The intimacy of the touch, his boss’s hot breath against his neck, makes Loki shiver involuntarily. It’s all… familiar, and yet… he’s sure that this man is about to kill him. He knows it. He’s resigned himself to it - in fact, he resigned himself to it long ago.

Better to do it now, than with Thor between them like a mortal shield.

“Hey, sweet thing,” Grandmaster whispers, “you know, I uh, I didn’t realize you were going to be out last night.”

“I’m sorry, boss,” Loki says carefully, “it was my brother from out of town. We never get to see each other, and he was only here for one night…”

“Your brother, right,” Grandmaster concedes, mildly, like he can’t be bothered to question Loki’s obviously false account. “I would have loved to meet the guy, you know? We’re all about, uh, family values, in this business.”

“Of course, boss.”

“But see,” Grandmaster continues. He unclasps his hands from Loki’s front, instead trailing fingers carefully down Loki’s sternum and further down his stomach, suggestive and slow. “I really missed you last night.”

“You did?” A faint tug of hope. Maybe that’s why he was called in here so early, maybe he needs only to help relieve Grandmaster’s urges and then he can be on his way -

Grandmaster’s fingers bypass Loki’s crotch, instead shifting down his hips and running down his thighs, prying them apart so that Loki is straddling his lap. “Mmmhmm,” the man hums just against Loki’s earlobe, making the hairs stand on end.

“I can make it up to you,” Loki suggests breathily, trying to shift to face his boss and take some initiative, but Grandmaster’s grip on his thighs is suddenly tight, unyielding.

The Grandmaster sighs. “Bad enough you’re spending so much time with that cop,” he says, and Loki flinches, “but that you would be absent when I needed you most? Oh, for _shame_ , Kiki!”

Grandmaster’s tone is still _achingly_ sensual. Loki’s body is almost beyond his control, paralyzed stiff in Grandmaster’s arms. When he feels the soft press of teeth, gently tugging his earlobe, Loki realizes that he’s getting _wet_ , despite it all.

Those women with the guns are watching.

He wonders what shape he’ll be in, when the detective inspector finds his body.

“Loki,” Grandmaster groans, deeply. “My sweet, loyal pet. My dearest, most trusted advisor. I need you to, um. I need you to tell me something, honestly.”

“...anything, boss,” Loki grits out, his heartbeat stuck in his throat.

Through his shirt, one of Grandmaster’s hands is toying with Loki’s nipple, firmly, twisting enough to earn a gasp. “What’s the, um. What’s the most rational course of action, here?”

There is no right answer to this question. If Loki lies, then Grandmaster will call him on it, and he’ll be shot dead in this room. If he tells the _truth,_ then… Grandmaster’s grip tightens suddenly, and Loki squeaks, and he whines out “Kill me,” on the helpless exhale.

Grandmaster hums, sounding almost disappointed. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he whispers, and then nips at Loki’s shoulder, and Loki’s squirming, because he’s so… overwhelmed, and ready for the sound of the gun firing. “It’d be such a _waste,_ ” the Grandmaster complains. “I really don’t want to have to do that.”

Loki comes back to himself with a sound somewhere between a cough and a sneeze, and Grandmaster is snickering quietly against his shoulder. “You don’t have to,” Loki chokes out hurriedly, “you don’t have to, I won’t - I’ll be so loyal, boss, _Grandmaster_ , please, it was a mistake, it didn’t mean anything-”

“It’s alright, it wasn’t your fault,” coos the Grandmaster. (If Loki were focused on anything except _not dying_ , he would notice how exceedingly _weird_ a response that was.) A hand cups between Loki’s legs and the other is braced around his middle to hold him still. Grandmaster whispers, “oh, Lo-Lo, it’s going to be alright. We’re gonna punish you nice and good, and you won’t need to uh, you won’t need to even think about that nasty policeman anymore…”

 

A half hour later finds Loki trussed up head to toe in knots. It’s not even the sexy kind of rope play; it’s _sturdy,_ the sort of thick rope they use to tie down Grandmaster’s motorboat against the shore. Loki has no movement available to him, except _maybe_ to rock his weight side-to-side until he tumbles off the surface of Grandmaster’s desk, but that hardly seems productive.

He’s also _muzzled,_ which doesn’t bode well.

In his mind’s eye, Loki can see the rest of the afternoon playing out. Grandmaster will use him, thoroughly, again and again, until eventually he grows tired, borrows a rifle from one of the bodyguards, and holds the barrel against Loki’s forehead to pull the trigger. Coldly, the way he does with all those who disrespect him.

And now that Loki is muzzled he can’t even beg for his life.

Grandmaster stands back, admiring his work, the way Loki is helpless atop his work desk like an overlarge, upturned beetle. “Now, I think I like you like this,” he says thoughtfully, patting Loki’s flank. “You’re pretty frightened, aren’t you? Capital-F Frightened this time around. No games, no tricks, no stubborn pride. Isn’t that better, Lo-Lo?”

Loki hums against the gag in what he hopes to be an agreeable tone.

“Yes, yes, okay honeycake, so here’s my thought.” Grandmaster wiggles his fingers as he appraises Loki’s form. “I’d like to, uh, get you all naked. Maybe we should have done that before all this ropework. Hah! Live and learn.”

In the moment that he is out of Loki’s sight, Grandmaster fetches a knife. Loki groans audibly, helplessly, because that’s _so much worse_ than the gun.

“Now, we just cut along here…”

Pieces of cloth fall away in little triangles. Cool air against bare, sensitive skin. And nausea. And the ache in his neck as he tries to keep his head lifted to watch what Grandmaster is doing.

Grandmaster doesn’t spend too much time admiring what he’s uncovered - instead, rather in a rush, there are fingers probing at Loki’s cunt. “You know,” he babbles, “I’d planned on a gag, but the, um, the _muzzle,_ that’s a nice touch. You’re so, so _surprising_ , aren’t you?”

Behind the front of the muzzle, Loki clamps down hard on the rubber bit, grinding his teeth into it and trying to shift his hips up to ease the way for Grandmaster’s fingers, so wet and large and deliberately clumsy. The man’s thumb, thick with slick, wanders to Loki’s back entrance and begins working there too, forcing a shudder up Loki’s spine, making his cock twitch.

Separated by the wall of Loki’s insides, Grandmaster’s thumb and fingers press together as if to meet, and Loki yelps behind the leather, tears blurring his vision. Grandmaster uses his grip to leverage Loki’s hips off the desk and Loki tries his best to comply, arching his spine, so Grandmaster laughs in delight. “Like a little handle,” he declares, “to hold onto you!”

Loki lets his head fall back against the desk, and shuts his eyes. Reminds himself that he’s physically helpless and probably going to die anyway, to just _let it happen,_ to not waste his outrage and pain and fear on something he can’t control. It doesn’t matter anymore.

He thinks of Thor. He wonders if he’s condemned the poor man to a similar fate. It’s… it’s a shame. At least the detective knew what he was getting himself into. Maybe, as he monitors the Sakaarii businesses, he’ll notice Loki’s conspicuous absence and take it as a _warning._

“Be a darling and pass me that, would you?” One of the guards hands the Grandmaster what looks like a substantial, battery-powered toy. “This will go… here…” Grandmaster says to himself quietly, studying Loki’s squirming body like he’s instructions for furniture assembly, pressing the dildo home deep in Loki’s ass and coaxing a pleasured moan in response, at the girth, the way the vibrations feel on his rim. “And then we can get you all nice and relaxed for my… hand… oh, you’re doing so well, honeybunches. Love seeing that, that look in your eyes, so _intense…_ ”

 

Without warning, the base of Loki’s skull erupts in searing pain. Getting-shot-in-the-head sort of pain, but through his blurry, flashing vision he can make out his boss looking quite startled and confused at Loki’s sudden, reflexive expression of agony, so it… it probably wasn’t a gunshot… “What happened? What’s wrong?” Grandmaster asks, and Loki would think him genuinely concerned if such a thing were possible, checking up and down Loki’s body for some sort of injury, some blood, anything.

There is a knock at the door. (If Loki weren’t so distracted, it would occur to him that it shouldn’t be _possible_ to knock on that door, so cushioned it was with plush leather.) It takes a moment of staring into middle distance in Loki’s general direction, but then Grandmaster’s face relaxes, like he’s worked something out. The sharp pain in Loki’s head is fading.  Grandmaster sighs, heavily, muttering “for the love of…” before calling in an agitated sing-song over Loki towards the door, “ _Brotherrr,_ you’re interrupting.”

The head of the Sakaarii mob doesn’t have a brother, but neither does Loki, and at that moment, with the thick vibrator still buzzing away inexorably, that seems rather irrelevant.

 _“May I… come in?”_ asks a voice from the other side of the door, quite a bit more audible than Loki would expect.

Grandmaster glances down at Loki and hums, his mouth twisting in impatience. “Only if you play along,” he concedes, finally, and the door opens.

Something about this development has Loki bucking almost violently against the table, because that’s the only movement available to him and - the _indignity_ of it, is what’s getting to him. Most of him has… given in, he’s resigned himself to this treatment, to be taken apart thoroughly and used and killed. But he’s _alive_ still, and there’s a little part of him that’s just _enraged_ that the boss would let some stranger in, that he wouldn’t handle Loki _first_ even if just to dispose of him.

Loki has worked under the Grandmaster for _fifteen years._ Surely he deserves at least... (Grandmaster’s thumb is still stubbornly focused on exploring the base of Loki’s cock and Loki _keens)... at least_ his full attention.

The man who enters is dressed similarly to the boss, but where Grandmaster’s suit is deep blues and golden yellow accents, this one is black and dark, rich red. That’s about all Loki can make out because Grandmaster is still _touching him_ and-

Mildly, and with an air of disappointment, the stranger says, “I don’t know what I expected.”

Four fingers, pressing into Loki’s cunt, making room for a fifth - Loki aches in the deepest parts of his body. It’s frustrating and arousing and - he can feel himself leak more, the vibrations in his ass only magnifying everything. The Grandmaster’s voice: “Hope you weren’t, uhhh, expecting me to stop?”

“I suppose... not,” says the stranger.

“Have a seat,” suggests Grandmaster hospitably, gesturing with his free hand. “It’s so, um, serendipitous you’re here. I was thinking about - I think I was thinking about introducing you two. Loki, this is Taneleer Tivan. He’s, um, oh how are we doing this? You know the Collective?”

A gang with territory on the other side of the river, Loki’s mind fills in. Of course he knows of them.

“He’s their, uhhh, kingpin. Isn’t that right, Tan-Tan?”

Tivan makes a non-committal noise.

Grandmaster’s fingers go - _deeper_ \- and now Loki’s shivering involuntarily under the ropes. Equal parts ecstasy and disgust. It feels… physically difficult to hold himself together. He can even… at this point he can even feel the ridge of the ring on Grandmaster’s finger brush against his inner walls, the ring that elsewise Loki had been made to kiss.

As he tilts his head back and arches his spine, he accidentally meets eyes with Tivan, which is surreal to the highest degree, and then the boss’s _mouth_ is on his cock, exploratory and hot.

Loki breaks with a fractious orgasm, dribbling wetness over the handle of the vibrator, violently spasming against the rope, losing his breath, going dizzy, and through it all, Taneleer Tivan’s disaffected, droning voice: “An entire… universe… at your disposal… and you use it only to torment… _one_ man.”

A popping noise, cool air on Loki’s too-sensitive cock. Above him, Grandmaster licks his lips, then smiles, waggling the index finger of his free hand. “It’s a city, not a universe. Actually, it’s only half a city. And, uhh, you’d be surprised. Loki is hardly just, hah, _one_ man.”

Tivan cocks his head. Loki can feel the man’s eyes studying him, just as he can feel Grandmaster’s thumb finally breach him, and the slow, uncomfortable push of the boss’s hand fully inside. Tivan hums. “Is that…” he asks “...a sales pitch?”

Inside, Grandmaster’s hand flinches, and Loki shuts his eyes, halfheartedly groaning into the muzzle. “No!” says Grandmaster, “Nonono, I was just _sharing,_ Taneleer, I was just - it’s like you don’t even care what’s going on in my life.”

“I don’t,” says Tivan.

“You’re so rude,” says Grandmaster matter-of-factly, ”I’m going to kick you out, I’m really considering it.” But his eyes are trained on Loki, and he’s smiling, goofy and satisfied, entranced by Loki’s squirming. “What do you want, Tan-Tan?”

“A Ch’Korathi specimen,” explains Tivan, his pronunciation careful and clear, “has fallen to Sakaar’s soil. The Ch’Korathi are telepathic pinnipeds native to Visav 5,... a planet which is newly under construction, by the… Prooerians…”

With each word from Tivan, the gunshot-wound-like ache in Loki’s head flares. His eyes screw shut tight from the pain, panting breaths through his nose. He can hardly feel the soft press of Grandmaster’s clean hand against his cheek, can barely hear the quiet shushing from his boss. “Get to the point, Brother.”

“Might I… acquire… the specimen?”

Grandmaster is purring at Loki. “Maybe we need you, uhh, better _distracted,_ sweetheart.” A knuckle cocks up against the squishy spot inside Loki’s cunt, and his clean hand traces the fat lip of Loki’s mound before settling in to stroke his slick cock in earnest, between thumb and forefingers. It isn’t even _pleasureable_ so much as just… just intense sensation that takes all of Loki’s focus just to _process._ Grandmaster’s hip nudges the base of the vibrator and Loki’s body _jumps_ , tears spilling from the corners of his eyes.

To Tivan, Grandmaster asks, “What about me? What do I get?”

Tivan smiles, and says softly, “En Dwi, I will give you anything you want… within reason.”

His mind feeling far away, Loki absently observes himself orgasm again, a rush of pleasure and the pulsing contraction of his body, and it’s very difficult to think at all.

Grandmaster grins down at Loki. “A debt,” he says, “you’ll owe me a debt, how about that? Uh, Loki here, he’s very into the whole, the whole debts thing. Owing them, paying them back; it’s very important to him. I thought I’d give it a try.”

Tivan watches Grandmaster, his expression calculating. Eventually, he says, “Alright. A debt.”

“Great! Great, I’m glad that’s all, you know, worked out.” He turns off the vibrator, and Loki breathes out some sort of noise of relief which is captured in the muzzle. To himself, Grandmaster murmurs, “Oh, baby is all tuckered out. Mm. I think we’re done here.”

Tivan stands. “Back to Sakaar?” he asks. “If you take a break from your… universe-sandbox… we could have lunch?”

Grandmaster’s expression melts even further, “Oh, Tan-Tan, I’m sorry for snapping at you, you know I love you. Um. I’m not jumping back yet, but hold that thought, I can, uhh, let’s work something out.” Gently, he pats Loki’s flank once more. “Ready, kitten?”

Everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look here's some porn!! not every chapter will have porn but this one sure did. also not quite sure why the collector is here? he just kinda showed up. i like him. also i love people having totally normal conversations while fucking. 
> 
> i've got like twelve chapter idea nuggets so i'm in good shape to keep writing as long as people like it.


	3. Garden Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> could be triggering for child abuse, be wary

When the engine starts anew, En Dwi and Taneleer are walking together through a long, tall hallway full of natural light. The walls and floor are made of polished granite, buttresses hold up the ceiling, and great golden statues line the path. The sun is high in the sky, visible through opulent windows, suggesting that it must be either late morning or early afternoon.

“It’s a neat little trick,” En Dwi explains, as he pats down his newly restored golden robes with the blue and red accents. He also purses his lips, to feel the little tug of makeup on the surface of his skin. “I just give the engine whatever parameters I’m feeling - in this case, _garden party, preferably brunch or lunch -_ and it works out all the little details for me. Draws on the memories of its passengers. It even - you’re not gonna believe this - it even pulled some things out of Loki’s little head to give it, uh, that personal touch.”

Taneleer, too, is back in his usual dress; the red and black leathers, the rings, the furry accents. His makeup is restored, the dark line running from his bottom lip down his chin, just like En Dwi’s. “Fascinating,” he says. Taneleer sounds unimpressed, but that’s just the quality of his voice - En Dwi knows he’s interested, can see the way his eyes light up. “Is this… a device?... An artifact?”

En Dwi smiles. “Taneleer, _Taneleer,”_ he sing-songs, “it’s just a bit of the power primordial. A nice little nugget I sculpted myself a couple of eons ago. Come on, can’t you sense that? You’re - you’re pulling my leg.”

Taneleer frowns.

En Dwi gets an arm around his shoulders, “Oh, Brother, you really gotta, uh, get out of your museum once in awhile, live a little. Open your eyes to all the possibilities.”

“At least,” says a disgruntled Taneleer, “I have something… tangible… for all my time and effort.”

En Dwi makes a face. “What’s that supposed to mean? I have a, a _planet!”_

“You have a trash heap… and a little sandbox to play in… when you get bored of the trash heap.”

“Hmm.” En Dwi lets go of Taneleer’s shoulders to grab his hand and tug him down the hallway. “Let’s go get some food, Brother, I think you get cranky when you’re hungry.”

Far down towards the end of the hallway there is light, so it must open directly to the gardens as promised. As they walk, Taneleer is observing things more carefully than En Dwi would bother with. The point of these worlds is for _Loki_ to experience them, and for En Dwi to experience _Loki,_ so it doesn’t really matter to him what the statues look like or whether the trees produce fruit from this or that galaxy. When they’re halfway to the garden, Taneleer asks, “What will your paramour be doing… in this session?”

En Dwi winks at him, or tries to, anyway. “Feeling frisky? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

An eye roll from Taneleer. “I only wish to keep my meal separate from his bodily fluids.”

“That’s fair,” En Dwi chuckles. “I didn’t tell the engine what to do with him. I’ve really been enjoying the surprises so far! He’s got such interesting stuff going on in his head.” The possibilities here really are endless, but En Dwi’s hunch is that Loki will just be another guest at this garden party. “It’ll be interesting to see if he recognizes me this time. Last session could have, uh, really left a lasting impression.”

En Dwi’s imagination turns again to the Loki from the mob universe. That Loki had been so _quick_ to accept the reality of his situation in a way that Loki Prime had never managed. They’d had escapades back on Sakaar, sure, with Loki all exposed for the enjoyment of the Grandmaster’s guests, but Loki had always… held on to his pride. He’d resisted, wherever and whenever he was able to, surreptitiously.

Loki Prime’s history necessitated that pride. A Loki without that history has no compunctions about letting go of the pride. And maybe in the future, after experiencing so many other universes, Loki will feel a little more distance from his prime history, and… maybe he’ll be able to _relax_ , for once. Really let Grandmaster take care of him.

“En Dwi,” says Taneleer sharply. “You suggested your pet… had only a _small_ influence in your sandbox.”

“Yes?” En Dwi cocks his head. “What of it?”

Taneleer narrows his eyes. “Look.”

Two feminine figures approach from the distance, silhouetted by the outside light. As they get closer, En Dwi can make out the details - one is dressed in robes that shine in the light, thin ceremonial golden armor, and the other is a fully armored guard with a helmet and everything, and it’s… ringing a bell, on the tip of his tongue…

Taneleer bows performatively, sweeping his arms out to his sides. “Lady Frigga.”

“Taneleer Tivan,” Frigga responds with a smile, permitting him to kiss her hand. “I am so glad you received our invitation. This must be the brother you mentioned?”

“Um,” says En Dwi, when the other three turn eyes on him. He gives a curtsy, picking up his robes about himself. “Toodeloo Tivan, your, uh, majesty.”

“So nice to meet you,” says Frigga, politely. To Taneleer she continues, “Please, join us for a meal? The Allfather will be available to discuss business with you shortly.”

Frigga and the guard continue past them, down the hallway.

“We are on Asgard,” says Taneleer, when they are out of earshot and he and En Dwi are continuing down the hall.

“Not _real_ Asgard.”

“Clearly,” Taneleer sneers. “On _real_ Asgard, Lady Frigga is... a huge bitch.”

“Hah!” En Dwi laughs, but it sounds like the edge of hysteria. “You don’t think… you don’t think it’s _all_ Asgard, do you? Little Loki couldn’t… could he?”

“One moment.” Taneleer reaches the entrance to the gardens first, and he stops there, to study the scene.

En Dwi joins him, looking out over the greenery. Directly forward is a large open space of gravel (though the stones of gravel themselves are sea-smooth), and a lavish, many-tiered fountain. Surrounding this, an extensive garden, with winding paths and layers and layers of flowers in bloom. On the opposite side of the fountain, there seems to be the entrance to a hedge maze.

Dotted around this central area are tall, circular bar tables laden with fruits and wines and cheeses. No more than forty Asgardians, all in luxurious formalwear and plaited hair, are milling about and conversating. None of them are Loki.

Taneleer hums, thoughtfully. “It couldn’t have been… _all_ Loki’s doing.”

“It couldn’t?” asks En Dwi. He finds himself rather hopeful for an explanation, because this seems… Even if Loki’s subconscious holds more sway than En Dwi realized, this seems a little too far beyond the realm of possibility.

“No,” explains Taneleer, “because these are _my_ memories, as well.”

 

They settle themselves on the low stone bench near the gardens on the rightmost side, quite a bit apart from the other guests. En Dwi is the one who gathers a plate from the refreshments table, smiling shyly at the catering staff. With only two hands, he balances the second wine goblet on the air in front of him as he returns to Taneleer, sharing with him the bounty.

“You got the brown cheese?”

“I got the brown cheese.”

“Exquisite,” Taneleer says, accepting the proffered wine goblet. “Æsir cuisine is so… humble, yet memorable.”

En Dwi settles in next to him, briefly scanning their surroundings again for any sign of Loki. Aloud he says, “I didn’t know you were chummy with Asgard.”

Taneleer flattens a slice of pungent Gamalost onto a water biscuit, spreading over it some of the jam En Dwi had dolloped onto the plate. “There is much you do not know about me, Brother,” he says. “But… ‘chummy’ is the wrong word. The Æsir were… far less welcoming, in reality. Even less so, when they realized their… philosopher’s stone… had been requisitioned.”

“When was this?” En Dwi asks.

His companion thinks to himself, calculating. “One, maybe two millennia ago?”

“Was Loki there?”

Taneleer shrugs. “Perhaps he wasn’t but a twinkle in his mothers eye.”

En Dwi stares suspiciously, broadly, at all the women in attendance. “You don’t think…? No - I really don’t think the engine works that way. He at least must be conscious, somewhere.”

“I am sure, with your incredible cosmic power… you will manage to find him,” Taneleer says, drily. “In the meanwhile, try this.” He nudges a wafer at En Dwi’s mouth insistently. “Go on.”

 

They spend at least an hour catching up, trading stories from the past few years. When En Dwi mentions his new card of fighters at the Contest of Champions, Taneleer perks up, but En Dwi tries to keep his descriptions vague. He doesn’t want the Collector collecting from his turf. Except for the Ch’Korathi, because he doesn’t care about that, and he wants his debt from Taneleer.

When their conversation wanes, the Lady Frigga returns to the garden, a note of urgency to her posture. Subtly, she meets eyes with the Allfather and shakes her head, and he sighs deeply, the worry passing to him as well. He seems to gesture something to one of his attendants, a matronly woman dressed in white. She takes off at a steady clip back down that hallway and into the palace.

Then, a guardswoman blows into a horn, and the party is silent as Frigga and Odin step forward together.

“Thank you everyone for joining us,” says Frigga. None of her previous worry shows on her face or in her voice; only queenly confidence. “We are here to celebrate the momentous achievements of my son, Thor, in his first sanctioned athletic tournament!” From behind her, a youth appears, blond and bright-eyed and just barely an adolescent, grinning.

En Dwi glances at Taneleer, an unspoken _is this how you remember it?_ passing between them. Taneleer shrugs, whispering, “Brother… I didn’t care then… and I don’t care now.”

Thor, the prince, hasn’t been around the party before this moment. His knees look dusty with dirt, and he was probably dragged unwillingly from garden games with his fellows to make this brief appearance.

“I don’t get children,” En Dwi remarks. “I don’t like them. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.”

“What difference does age make?” asks Taneleer, “They are all children.”

They make toasts to the boy, which is not very exciting at all, but the wine is good, and it is En Dwi’s third cup. Thor disappears again after a few minutes, weaseling his way out of his mother's’ arms and back to the fields. Frigga mentions in passing that unfortunately, her younger son is feeling under the weather and could not be in attendance.

Taneleer stands, eventually, and turns to face En Dwi directly. “Well, Brother,” he says, in his soft, droning voice, “I cannot say that this event was… any less _boring_ the second time. But, it was slightly less… dreadful… with your company. Even distracted as you are.”

“Good to see you too, Tan-Tan,” En Dwi says, grasping his hand and shaking it. “When you get out, uhh, go ahead and nab the Ch’Korathi. Don’t take anything else though, ha ha, ‘cause Topaz keeps an inventory-”

“I can’t find Loki!” The matronly attendant bursts through the garden’s entrance, looking far more harried than before. The guests, including En Dwi and Taneleer, turn to look at her askance, and she grimaces, regretting the sudden shouting.

“Did she say…?” En Dwi asks, still holding Taneleer’s hand.

At the front of the garden, The Allfather sighs again, even deeper. Frigga rubs her forehead, and En Dwi hears her muttering, “by the _Norns…”_ before she hurries past the guests to the attendant, the two of them rushing back down the hall. Odin pats one of his guards on the shoulder, murmuring that he is going to check if Thor and the others have seen the younger prince.

It’s beginning to click together for En Dwi that one, Loki is a prince, and two, he is a child in this universe, an actual child. “That’s-” he gets out, and Taneleer is watching him strangely.

“Need I be concerned, Brother, that the man you were fucking senseless… but two hours ago… is suddenly a youth?”

“What? What - _no!_ No, I don’t - I don’t want that, oh, _gross_ , Taneleer.”

“You must understand… how this looks, En Dwi.”

“I-” he tries to say, but… For the first time in many eons, En Dwi is speechless.

He never likes to mess around in people’s heads because there’s always a chance that he’ll trip over a crossed wire and things will get _weird._ But he thought - he thought that playing in this pocket universe would _mitigate_ that risk. No direct probing or anything, just shared experiences and alternate histories. This situation, though, feels like… like he went too far, like something is wrong, like he may have broken his toy.

His mind is racing. He suggests, “maybe this is only because, uh, because of _your_ memories? Maybe the magic used your memories and that happened to necessitate, uhh, the child-ification.”

Taneleer tilts his head. “En Dwi, I have been alive as long as you have. Under the search parameters, I’m sure the magic would have found... other garden parties more worthwhile to simulate… if my memories were the only factor to consider.”

“Do you think - is he ruined now?” asks En Dwi, helplessly.

“Look,” says Taneleer, gesturing behind him.

A dark shadow of a figure slinks behind the revellers and, yet undiscovered, darts into the hedge maze.

“I’m going to talk to him.”

Taneleer nods, and he places a hand on En Dwi’s shoulder. “Good luck, Brother. Don’t forget… mortals are very fragile. Play gently.”

 

After Taneleer leaves, En Dwi sneaks off from the party and into the hedge maze. He doesn’t bother playing by the rules, either. He reaches out to the telepathic field - it’s a little warped, within the universe-sandbox like this, but it’s enough to give directions. After taking a left, a right, and another left, he discovers the child curled up in a dead end, the hedges against its back and its knees pulled up to its chest.

“Uhh,” En Dwi says in a whisper, “Loki? I, um, I heard you weren’t feeling very good.” He crouches down so he isn’t towering over the child, and he tries to creep a little closer, but not close enough to startle… it…

The last time En Dwi was around an actual child, was… long enough ago that he can’t even remember clearly. He can’t even recall whose child it might have been, or even what species of child. He feels… out of his depth.

This child is dressed in dark sleep-pants and a white tunic, shadowed underneath what En Dwi had thought was some sort of robe or cape, but actually appears to be a black blanket, possibly stolen from somebody’s bed. It… isn’t looking at En Dwi. Its face is hidden behind its knees.

“Loki?” he tries again, shifting forward as if to maybe… touch it? Try to get its attention?

“Stay back!” orders the child in a small voice, suddenly pointing a dagger in En Dwi’s direction. And then En Dwi can see its face.

It’s… it’s Loki. Like, it isn’t really him, because it’s a _child_ , but… but the child is definitely Loki, his slick black hair, his piercing blue eyes, the way his mouth snarls… the look of terror… and then the boy is clutching his head in pain, whining out a soft groan, still pointing the dagger with his free hand.

En Dwi settles down on his knees, taking a deep breath. “Loki,” he asks the boy carefully, trying for warmth, “do you know who I am?”

The boy peeks out one eye despite the pain in his head, panting heavily. “This is wrong,” the boy says, his voice so _high_ and unfamiliar. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Persistently, En Dwi asks, “Do you know who I am?”

“No!” shouts the child, and then, “ _yes,_ you’re here to hurt me…” Little Loki grabs a fistful of his own hair and tugs, like to balance out the pain in his skull, “Every time I look at you, it’s telling me you’re here to hurt me.”

En Dwi is an Elder, but it’s moments like this that make him feel… _old._ He steadies himself, gathers his patience. “I’m not here to hurt you.” Again he reaches out, tries to touch the child’s shoulder, calm him somehow -

Little Loki brandishes the dagger again, something wild and lucid flashing in his eyes. “No!” he shouts, his tiny voice going into hysterics, “No! I’m a child, now! I’m a child and that means you can’t touch me! You can’t touch me anymore!”

 _Oh._ Oh.  En Dwi frowns down at the shaking form of the boy, processing those words. “Hey,” he says, mildly, “hey, Lo-Lo, how much control did you have over turning into a kid?”

The child screams, dropping the knife and cradling his head with both hands, rocking himself back and forth. The headache seems to flare up whenever something happens to break the illusion of the simulation.

En Dwi doubts Loki had full control over any of this. He probably retreated into memories of his childhood because the sexual torment of the previous universe had been too much for him, but… the lucidity, the frantic argument, makes En Dwi wonder if Loki had more control than he’d like to admit. Makes En Dwi think that maybe Loki _chose,_  to be a child, in this universe, just to keep his body out of En Dwi’s reach. And the insolence of that sort of action really... really grinds En Dwi’s gears.

Makes him feel like he’s been _played._

“You know, you’re so cute like this.” He says it without inflection, without even smiling. He doesn’t really find the child cute - children are gross and confusing and he wants nothing to do with them. But he needs to shut down this insolence; it’s exactly the reason they came into the sandbox in the first place.

Loki’s weeping face, shaking his head as he hiccups out in the tiniest voice, “Ple-e-ease, no-oooo…”

“I think you oughta give me, uh, a little kiss on the cheek.” En Dwi points to his own cheek to indicate the spot. His tone is cold, and he stares at the sobbing boy unmoved.

Babbling in terror, Loki’s words spill out, “G-grandmaster, please… not this, not like th-this-”

“Loki, _look at me,”_ En Dwi snaps harshly, grabbing hold of the little boy’s tear-stained chin and forcing eye contact. “Listen to what I said. I am very upset with you. You are going to apologize with a kiss on the cheek.” His voice is stern as ever, he hasn’t been this _angry_ in ages, hot fire under his skin demanding some sort of punishment that he _can’t give under these circumstances,_ and that makes him doubly angry, and he’s trying to be very clear here, crystal clear, but the child’s eyes are staring back at him completely horrified and uncomprehending.

It’s not the first time Loki’s made that expression, but on the face of the child it is so much worse. The utter lack of faith in Grandmaster’s ability to protect him - it really, it really makes En Dwi so… so angry. To be distrusted, even after they’ve been through so much together.

 _“Do it,”_ he tells the child.

A few long seconds pass. Then, the press of soft lips against Grandmaster’s cheek, cool in temperature like the last dying gasp of winter on a spring day.

En Dwi lets it happen. He doesn’t move under the child’s touch, and when it’s clear En Dwi isn’t going to _grab_ him, Loki’s face breaks with relief, the sobbing starting up again now that the tension has passed. “Okay,” murmurs En Dwi softly, not looking at the child, “Alright. Uh. Good boy.”  He studies the gravel, listening to little Loki trying to pull himself together.

The sobbing becomes whimpers, sniffles. The child rubs away tears with the heel of his hand.

“I don’t like what you did here, kitten,” En Dwi says. “I don’t like when people are so underhanded. I, uh, I also don’t appreciate… what you said. That I’m only here to hurt you. Even when you’re... ” he sighs, “like _this.”_

The child Loki whispers, “When I woke this morning, I told mother that my head was aching, and she asked me if I’d had enough water to drink yesterday? So I tried to remember yesterday, and I - I remembered _sex,”_ he makes a face of horrified disgust, “and, and the headache was so much worse, and I… I think… I must be going insane?” The little boy shivers, wraps his arms around himself. “It - it was only a matter of time. That’s what they all think. They think the s-seiðr will push me over the edge.”

“What happens then?” En Dwi asks, “Who takes care of you, then?”

The child frowns, shuts his eyes.

“See,” says En Dwi, “see, Lo-Lo, I will do a lot of sexy, terrible things to you. I want to crack you open and see how you tick. I want to rearrange some things, because you’re so tense all the time and I, I just wish you would relax. But _this?”_ En Dwi gestures widely at Loki’s little body, the child’s form, the snotty nose and puffy eyes, “This is not fun for me. I don’t want to _break_ you.”

“I want to go home,” says the child, suddenly. _No,_ Grandmaster is about to say, _we leave the sandbox when I say so,_ but immediately the child is standing, running away back out of the hedge maze. En Dwi follows, about to ask, _where are you going,_ when they reach the garden once more.

“Loki!” Frigga’s relief is palpable, and she gathers the boy in her arms, “Where have you been?”

 _“Mother!”_ the child moans, and…

Enough. Enough of this. En Dwi cuts this world off, (ripping Loki away from the memory), and starts working out the next one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next verse is grandmaster trying to re-establish the normal rhythm of their relationship? and also trying to firm up loki's sanity a bit.


	4. Superhero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh the prose isn't great and the humor is a little out of place but here we go, i'm ready

Some species can’t handle their atmospheres. There are special apparatuses, medical equipment to assist certain fellows with their quick transition from low to high atmospheric pressure. Without them, a person might get sick or fall unconscious until their body adjusts to the change, or until their organs cease to function.

The mortal mind goes through the same trauma when their universe cuts out, like insufficient atmosphere, like plunging too many miles under seawater. En Dwi is acclimated to such changes. Loki, however, is unconscious on the floor.

Or, rather… there is no _floor,_ but Loki is unconscious floating in the negative space and that’s close enough.

Like an emergency medical professional conducting triage, En Dwi wants to _stabilize_ Loki. His poor pet is hemorrhaging sanity with every successive universe trial and it’s not exactly having the effect En Dwi intended. It had been… fun, at times, but not as fun as he’d hoped.

If Loki stabilizes, their play can continue until En Dwi is really _satisfied._

“What should we do with you?” he asks, but Loki doesn’t answer, almost at peace in the dead space of the dormant pocket universe. “Gotta give you some new foundation to stand on, huh? Stick something under your feet. Get you confident. I wonder…”

Loki says nothing. For a moment, En Dwi admires his features now that he is back in his regular form (at least, what passes for his regular form on Sakaar. En Dwi has known for awhile that there’s something hiding under that Æsir glamour, but he isn’t going to peel away that layer until the moment is right.)

Like this, asleep, Loki is breathtaking. A piece of art, to be mounted on the wall or displayed like a statue, eyes all around.

Somewhere, outside of this, Taneleer is probably hauling an unconscious pinniped into his spaceship, or at least into whatever wormhole leads to Knowhere. And the thought of it reminds En Dwi that what he likes about Loki isn’t something that can be pinned down and studied.

He sighs to himself, and palms Loki’s soft cheek. “If I just say, uh, ‘be confident,’ that probably wouldn’t work, would it?” En Dwi integrates some of his magic with the engine and feels around for the language boundaries. “I could make you a king, sweetheart, but you’re a prince, aren’t you? Won’t that just rile you up?”

Loki is motionless, still.

“Last time, your little memories really impressed me. Let’s uh… how about we just… like so…” and he poses the challenge to the engine: A universe where Loki would feel good and confident.

Let the magic sort out the rest.

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺

The information filters into En Dwi’s mind, a dossier of facts about this world and his role in it. He is much younger than usual - not in face but in mind, in the way his magic is supposed to appear uncultivated and shallow. He’s got a date, it seems, to meet with some fellow outside a Zetrypsan restaurant.

Looking around the street corner, there’s nothing especially strange about this place. No posters of dictator Loki on the electricity poles, nor any particularly Loki-esque architectural features. It looks like a lower-middle class borough on a mercantile planet, a “melting pot” of galactic cultures. The only distinguishing feature is the rubbery-plastic lanes crisscrossing above street level and lubricated with mucus - the planet was probably originally home to a species of gastropods, whose lifestyles influenced the final rounds of urban planning.

The Zetrypsan restaurant doesn’t seem very busy. Outside it stands a man, dressed almost like Loki, in his muted blue leathers and trousers. The differences - his shoulder pads are more substantial, a deep blue cape hangs down his back, and a holographic display emanating from his arm bracer holds his full attention.

The only thing is… this man is blue. Frost Giant blue. _Right._

Slightly before he says anything, the pieces are beginning to click together for En Dwi, and he lends himself an over-excited affectation as he runs across the road towards Loki.

“Hello!” he says, pretends, acts out, “Hello, Mr. Loki! Is that - is that right to call you that, Mr. Loki?”

All the same features as regular Loki but the coloring is… so _pretty_ and different, and there are neat little geometric designs in his skin, and his eyes are red red red like _jewels._

Loki looks down his nose at En Dwi, the holographic display sputtering out. Half a second passes, and then, “You’re older than I expected.”

“Oh,” says En Dwi, flushing, “That would be on account of, umm... my age.”

The silence extends a moment too long for politeness. En Dwi waits, trying to be patient, wondering just how many cogs Loki’s head is missing. Then, they begin chugging forward again, and Loki smiles, grandly, performatively. His teeth are still white, though a little sharper. “My apologies, that was rude,” Loki says, “You may call me - whatever you like, really. You can fly, can’t you? I’ve got business in the theta sector and you’re coming with me.”

Loki, for lack of a better word, _takes off_ into the air, and tugs En Dwi off the ground with him before En Dwi can manipulate the air to lift him as well. It seems to come naturally to Loki, like walking or swimming would. Flying. Though if En Dwi’s anthropological memory serves, that’s probably not a Frost Giant feature so much as a judicious use of seiðr.

The cape flutters behind him, giving Loki quite the silhouette against the largest of the Fluvian moons. Blue against purple sky. Like a fantasy. Like some sexy cover art for a ska record.

“Gee, Mr. Loki!” shouts En Dwi over the current of air, playfully enthralled, as the city shrinks below their flight. “When I signed up be trained as a sidekick, I never dreamed it would be with _The Savior of Fluva IV._ You’re… well, golly, sir, you’re a legend!”

“Don’t be silly,” says Loki, grinning and looking quite chuffed at the adulation, “It was hardly _just_ me. Every member of our task force carried the day _together._ ” He glances to the side at his companion. “Someday, you’ll join our ranks, won’t you?”

“Really? You think so?”

“Of course. Pray tell me, friend, what shall I call you? With what name will you strike terror in the hearts of evildoers?”

“Well,” En Dwi hesitates, and if they were on land he would dig his toe into the dirt to look especially nervous, “I was thinking of calling myself ‘The Grandmaster.’”

A snort from Loki, who then glances back at En Dwi with a frown, “Oh, you’re serious?”

“What’s so funny?!” demands En Dwi, not quite pretending.

“Makes you sound like a chess champion or something.”

“I _am_ a chess champion or something!” En Dwi declares indignantly.

Loki laughs mirthfully and shows his empty palms, “Alright, alright,” he concedes, “I’m sure your reputation will give such a grand name its due weight. In fact… now is a fine time to start.”

They arrive in what must be the theta sector of the city. The two or three story buildings have given way to massive skyscrapers. One of these tall buildings is very decidedly on fire.

“We go in,” says Loki, “we save whoever is inside, and then we retreat. Understood, Grandmaster?”

“We’re going into the burning building?” En Dwi asks, smiling wryly in a manner that belies his sidekick characterization.

“Yes,” says Loki, firmly.

“If you insist.”

It doesn’t take very long at all. En Dwi helps, nominally, carrying out a few citizens here and there. Clicky-clacky crustaceans in professional attire who would otherwise have broiled in the heat. But Loki is… magnificent. Maximum effort. When it looks like the flames are going to spread onto the top floor where many of the citizens remain trapped, Loki bypasses their screams and flailing arms to enter the fiery stairwell and, from his very _lungs_ , blows out frigid air that weakens and dissipates the flames, forming a layer of ice on the walls and down the hallway. The onlookers stare in awe.

Fiercely determined, Loki spins around, the cape fluttering. “This won’t hold for long,” he informs them. “Please form an orderly line - the Grandmaster and I will fly you down to safety.”

But then a man flings himself at Loki’s knees, crying, “My son! Please, my son is somewhere downstairs, I lost him in the crowds, I can’t find him, _please,_ help him!”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Loki says, helping the man to his feet. “I’ll save him!”

And, of course, he does. A walking cliché.

It’s… over-the-top. A performance of valor better suited to the stage. The little boy’s arms are wrapped death-tight around Loki’s neck as Loki finally floats him down to ground level where, on Loki’s orders, En Dwi had carried the rest of the victims. Loki is speaking softly to the little boy, praising his courage, _you did so well, little one, you were so brave, you’re safe now_ , and the fire-response team is dousing the flames. Little boy returned to his parent. The citizens applaud.

And then the heroes make their gracious exit, into the sky.

“I admit I came into this with low expectations,” says Loki as they float through the quiet of the night, overlooking the lights of the city. “My colleagues and I pick straws to determine who is stuck with the new recruit. So often an untrained recruit will hold us back in the field. But you held your own, Grandmaster.” He smiles kindly at En Dwi. “I look forward to seeing what sort of hero you become.”

“Thank you, Mr. Loki,” says En Dwi with a saccharine voice. Then, “May I ask you some questions, by the way? I am so deeply curious about you.”

“Be my guest,” offers Loki.

“How did you turn out this way? You were so… awfully heroic. Does helping others come naturally to you?”

“I suppose so,” says Loki, thoughtfully. “Grandmaster, are you familiar with Jötunheimr?”

“Of course,” says En Dwi immediately, but then the details of frost giants in _this_ universe filter through. This is… a different timeline. A built up civilization on Jötunheimr. Cities. A strict disperse government bureaucracy still recovering from historically entrenched ideals about physical strength in its leadership.

“I was born a runt, and though they’d never admit it, my birth parents couldn’t stand to raise me in Jötunheimr, knowing that I’d never be able to flourish there.”

“So they abandoned you?”

Loki startles. “What? No, they gave me up for adoption, they’re not _monsters.”_

En Dwi can feel himself making a funny face that he can’t quite stifle, but Loki is looking down at the city now, and the bracer on his arm with its holographic display.

He continues speaking quietly, distracted as he is. “Mother and Father, the people who took me in… they couldn’t have children on their own. They treated me like I was… important. Worthy. When I showed talent in seiðr they encouraged my studies and…”

“But, Loki,” En Dwi interrupts, “why do you like to help people?”

Loki laughs. “I suppose I take after my brother, in that regard,” he says, and flips to another page of the holographic display.

“Your brother?” En Dwi prods, because he just can’t help himself, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Loki looks at him strangely. “I don’t,” he says.

“Don’t you? You just said…”

En Dwi watches it wash over Loki - first the confusion, the denial, and then the remembering, and the horror, and,

“Oh,” says En Dwi, with a nice hot feeling in his stomach, “now we’re back in business.”

He cuts out the universe before Loki can break down again.


	5. Train / Secretary

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺

The magnetic bullet train strains the laws of aerodynamics, and the spaces between its cars are buffeted with whip-thin air currents at top speeds. There are doors between the cars specifically for the purpose of moving between them, but it’s  _ dangerous _ , especially on a straightaway with the accelerometer climbing. Even more dangerous with each of his arms held stiffly in the grip of a security professional, like they think he’s stupid enough to  _ jump. _

They make it to the front car - Loki’s hair is a tangle, his heartbeat fluttering with adrenaline. He’s ready to babble his way out of this, ready to defend himself, ready to  _ bite  _ someone just to get away, maybe kill everyone in this room and take control of the train himself though he’s never driven a train in his life. He just needs to get to the city, his father is  _ dying  _ and he won’t even get to say goodbye, won’t even get to apologize for  _ everything  _ if he doesn’t arrive on time - His guards appear stoic.

“A stowaway,” they explain to the conductor. “What should we do with him?”

The conductor isn’t even paying attention to the little dials and displays and switches. He’s grinning at Loki familiarly, though Loki is quite certain they’ve never met before. The violet, sandy landscape is a blur of motion outside the front window.

“What do you think?” asks the conductor playfully, spinning slowly to display his… body? The conductor’s clothes - pinstripe overalls, a matching cap, and a red kerchief around his neck - hug the man’s form a little too tightly. “I always liked these little outfits. Doesn’t it give me a nice caboose?” The conductor displays his rump, pert and bouncy in the too-tight uniform, and attempts to wink over his shoulder at the stowaway. 

Loki’s mouth has gone dry, somewhere at the intersection between fearful and mystified.

“Sir,” prompts a guard.

“A stowaway, are you?” the conductor asks again, unnecessarily. “Well you must be so, so brave! And poor. I bet you’ve gotta do all sorts of things to get by.”

Pride bubbles up like acid in Loki’s throat. How dare this  _ stranger  _ imply… But Loki remembers the starvation, living on the run, and how he likely won’t be able to win this fight. There is no sense in… in… 

“I’ll cut you a deal, babycakes. I’ll take you all the way to Shady Acres as long as you keep me… entertained. Won’t that be fun?”

No sense in fighting it.

Loki winds up sucking the man’s cock, of course.  He has experience enough with this. The man tastes like sweat and metal and, strangely,  _ oil,  _ which makes Loki wonder if the conductor  _ touches his own naked body while servicing the train parts,  _ and it shoots some strange amount of arousal into his veins.

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺

Gast, the CEO of Sakaar Industries, is kind enough to offer his personal secretary a handkerchief, after coming all over his face. Loki accepts the scrap of cloth, while swallowing down choice words with the bitter taste of semen deep in his throat. He notices through the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows behind Gast that the suns have set, and he wonders: for how long has he been servicing Gast this afternoon, tucked underneath his desk? He lost track of time.

“Great job today, squirt,” Gast remarks vibrantly with a hard slap of Loki’s back. “Keep up with that level of, uh, work ethic, and you’ll be promoted in no time!”

“You wouldn’t promote me,” says Loki mildly, “it would make it too difficult to take advantage of your position.” It’s just the truth, just something matter-of-fact. And even though Loki resents the cock-sucking duties, it’s not like he can afford to leave this job.

Gast has promised him this. If Loki leaves Sakaar Industries, Gast will personally ensure no one in the star system will ever pick up his resume again. Gast didn’t use so many words, of course, but the intent was there, hidden behind Gast’s guileless manner of speaking. The man’s eyes are hardest when he talks about the things he would hate to lose.

“Mmmm, smart cookie, you’re right,” admits Gast, “but maybe we can hook you up with a raise, how does that sound?”

“Wonderful, sir.” Loki stands from the desk, smooths down his dress shirt and his slacks, tries to stand out of Gast’s perimeter. He asks, “Shall we call it a night?” because he wants nothing more than to have three too many drinks and pass out in the privacy of his own apartment. 

“Well, uh, hold on, sport. I was thinking…” Gast zips up and buttons his dress trousers, adjusting his suit jacket around himself so he looks, once again, perfectly sleek. “Now that I’m paying you a little extra, what’s say you give us a little… extra effort?”

Bile rising in his throat, Loki cocks an eyebrow and tries to keep the disgust off his face. “What sort of extra effort?”

“Do you trust me?”

Loki hesitates. “Mr. Gast…” 

“Come on, Lo-Lo, we both know how this ends. Come here.” 

 

Loki had naively assumed he would always be  _ below _ the executive’s desk. Now he lying face down against it, his trousers and underwear looped around one leg, his other knee braced against the wood, his body exposed for Gast’s approval. 

Things with Gast were never supposed to go this  _ far.  _ He was supposed to get  _ bored  _ of Loki, or Loki would grow too  _ old _ , and then Gast would move on to torment someone else - this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

But now the CEO of Sakaar Industries is thoughtfully examining Loki’s cunt, making little noises of approval, and Loki can feel the shackles of blackmail locking around his ankles.

“Mr. Gast, I really don’t think this is the most productive use of your time…” he tries, pointlessly.

“Hush,” says Gast, and then he slicks his fingers in lubricant from the desk drawer, and without warning, those cool slick fingers pop right into Loki’s ass. He keens a whine against the desk and braces himself as Gast explores. 

He never found Gast attractive... surely he doesn’t, surely he doesn’t find the idea of being at the mercy of such a powerful and famous billionaire  _ exciting. _

At least he hadn’t found Gast attractive before, when it was just a matter of perfunctorily sucking the man’s cock, but  _ this  _ is…

“So, Loki, I was thinking,” Gast says conversationally, “it’s not like I’ve got any security cameras in my office, you know? And no one comes in here without knocking. So why should we - really, why are we limiting ourselves in our, uh, mutual sexual exploration? We could fuck each other silly in here and none of the other Sakaar employees would be the wiser! Except for maybe Topaz, because she’s the one who would replenish my, uh, special office-drawer lubricant.”

He’s getting wet, against his better instincts, and Gast is gently stroking Loki’s cock where it bows against the wood of the desk, and then something metal and bulbous at Loki’s back entrance, and he takes it, because  _ what else is there to do,  _ and it feels - 

“But I know you must not be… you must not do this very often, huh? Because you’re  _ so  _ dedicated to your job, aren’t you Lo-Lo, that you must not have had must of a social life these past few years, is that right? So that’s why we’re taking this, uh, extra slow. Plug you up overnight and see if you’re ready to take me tomorrow, does that sound nice?” 

Gast’s flat palm squeezes the flesh of Loki’s ass and pushes his cheek to the side to really expose his hole, and Loki groans into his elbow, feeling slick drip out of him, his body hot and needy.

“I know, sweetheart,” says Gast, “You just can’t  _ wait _ to get my cock in your pretty little ass. You know what? You shouldn’t even be nervous about it. You, my dear, are so  _ good  _ at whatever you put your mind to.”

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺


	6. Camboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i use a work skin here so make sure u have author's skin enabled

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺

Loki sort of hates himself for looking forward to it. Somewhere deep inside he’s shouting at himself _you’re getting too complacent,_ but he’s been ignoring that voice for years, and look where it’s got him: a decent one-bedroom apartment, a savings account, bills paid on time. Only natural to relax into the rhythm of it, make the experience a pleasant one.

“Mmm,” he hums in response to a clients’ sultry request in the chatbox, “For the right price I’ll do whatever your little heart desires, but…” a flippant wave of Loki’s hand towards the webcam, “these comments about my attitude? That isn’t going to change, love. If it bothers you so much, why don’t you leave the rest of us to our fun?”

He hates himself for looking forward to it. But even now he finds himself counting down the minutes. He’s in a pavlovian routine. If he can just hold out until 3:00…

He still does the public shows with the early afternoon crowd, and he gets some pocket change from that, little donations and ad revenue, but it’s _exhausting_ to be so focused on selling himself, poised and performative, energetic and sensual. At 3:00, his favorite client will arrive and pay for a private show, and he won’t have to be so… _on._

Hah. Favorite client. Like he knows this man as anything other than a faceless, voiceless username in a text box.

The client’s username is “Grandmaster”, classic projection of control, but the chatroom display cuts off after the first seven letters, so that’s what Loki calls him. Grandma never uses a microphone or a camera, content to just use text. He never says anything about himself or his life, even when Loki asks. He’s interested in Loki as more than just a sexual object - at least, he’s interested in the version of Loki that can be constructed from the various half-truths Loki uses to answer Grandma’s personal questions.

Grandma’s money is good, and his kinks are entirely manageable. He likes to watch Loki get off, and he likes to make Loki blush, or laugh…

It’s just… easy. Even if it was weird at first, it’s easy now, after so many months of this routine.

He hates himself for looking forward to it because he’s started to trust Grandma, and he really oughtn’t.

On receipt of a small donation, Loki spreads his legs for the audience, suggestive even though the folds of his silky, green robe obstruct the view. When they start messaging encouragements, he grins. “This makes you happy?” he taunts, “The illusion of power over me? No. I think what you like most is that, at the end of the day, you’re still dogs slavering over the scraps I give you.” The chatbox responds intensely to this, capital letters and return-taunts and crude announcements of sexual climax.

Then…

Grandmaster has entered the chat room

 **Grandma:** um

 **Grandma:** hey babe

 **Grandma:** time?

Loki dismisses his audience with a promise of another show tomorrow, and shuts down the session, before opening a private room and direct messaging Grandma the password and invoicing him the dues.

He checks the lock on the door to his bedroom - out of habit more than necessity; he doesn’t live with roommates anymore but he feels better with the security of a lock. He checks that the blinds on his windows are shut. He feels… eager, too eager, and a bit excited.

Grandma was never like his other clients. What attracted this man not to any other camworker but to _Loki_ … it will always be a mystery. Maybe it’s the banter.

Other clients buy into Loki’s image of refined power, they get off on the humiliation of Loki ignoring them or telling them they’re unworthy. Grandma only ever found Loki’s act… _cute._

That’s… something. That’s exciting and different and something that Loki finds _stupidly_ appealing.

Grandmaster has entered the chat room

 **Grandma:** hey lo-lo

 **Grandma:** been thinking about u

 **Grandma:** wanna try something different today

Loki smiles, not too wide, and leans back on the daybed. “I don’t see why not. What did you have in mind?”

 **Grandma:** why don’t you use a vibrator for a bit, keep it pressed up between your legs, hands-free, you know?

 **Grandma:** i’d like that

Loki does as told. It seems simple enough. He finds a vibe - the type with the penetrative toy built on, a nice smooth rod of silicone - and holds it up for Grandma’s approval. “Would you like to see me place it or would you like to hold off, love?”

 **Grandma:** no need to show me, nothing i haven’t seen before ;)

 **Grandma:** just get it turned on quickly, now

Fair enough. Underneath the robe, Loki presses the vibe flat against his seam, so the little bulge of the head tucks up right under Loki’s cock. It’s a nice toy to ride like this, even at the lowest setting, even without any penetration - it’s a massage, like this, nice and tingly, and he closes his legs around it to get the vibrations more firmly.

He makes a sound of pleasure for Grandma’s benefit, and he flutters his lashes at the camera, relaxing further his posture and letting the robe open a bit on his chest.

 **Grandma:** feels good?

“Quite,” says Loki, smiling lazily.

 **Grandma:** when was the last time u got off?

Loki shrugs. “I suppose two days ago,” he says, “the last time you graced me with your attention.”

 **Grandma:** ohhh loki don’t lie to me :<

 **Grandma:** just tell me the truth i wont be mad i promise

Loki grins, laughing a bit. “I’m entirely sincere. I haven’t gotten off since then; there wasn’t any need. I’ve certainly _faked_ coming, in the past forty-eight hours, but you know how I am. It just seems so pointless without you.”

Half truths. Entice Grandma to see Loki even more regularly. It’s all… there’s business involved, and Loki tries to tell himself that it’s only the business that makes him answer the questions the way he does.

He doesn’t really want Grandma to know he hasn’t been _able_ to get off alone.

Maybe it’s the new medications, or -

 **Grandma:** you’re such a flatterer

 **Grandma:** touch ur nipples for me would you

 **Grandma:** how have u been holding up? bills getting paid? u know how i feel about taking care of my favs

Loki touches himself underneath the robe, rolling a nipple between the tips of his fingers before pinching hard and squirming against the vibe. “All is well,” he promises Grandma, grateful to the man as a client despite the fact that it’s an equal exchange, “though you know I wouldn’t turn down a tip. Really, is this what you want to discuss right now?”

 **Grandma:** yes i like when we have our little talks

 **Grandma:** are u dating anyone?

Loki laughs. “If I was, would I tell you?” he says, which he knows is the wrong answer but he chooses to say it anyway, because he’s testing his boundaries even when he shouldn’t be, and the vibrations between his legs feel good.

 **Grandma:** yes u would tell me bc you don’t lie to me.  

And that’s the wrong answer from Grandma, too, something pushy and a little presumptuous. The full-stop at the end gives it a sense of finality, like there’s no arguing that point. Makes Loki’s heart quicken. “Fair,” he says finally, on a breathy exhale. “Well, if you must know, I am still as yet unfettered.”

 **Grandma:** why?

“Because I rather enjoy being on my own,” Loki replies smoothly, which is, again, the wrong way to entice a client. He pinches himself in the chest a little harshly for that one, but he just really can’t stop himself from speaking his mind to Grandma. “It allows me to spend more time with you, for example.”

 **Grandma:** why don’t u put the vibrator up a bit

 **Grandma:** do u play well with others?

 **Grandma:** i get the impression u dont play well with others

 **Grandma:** i think u like touching urself and being in control bc you’re afraid of others touching u

The stronger vibrations have Loki’s cock hard and he tries to shift a bit to get the vibe pressed more firmly against himself. He misses the last message from Grandma at first, and when he sees it he squints at it. “There are,” he says at length, “benefits to being responsible for one’s own pleasure. But I wouldn’t say I’m _afraid_ of another’s touch.”

 **Grandma:** you wouldn’t?? good good 2 know

Loki smiles warily at the screen. “Are you fantasizing about meeting me, again? I hate to tell you so, but it’s terribly unlikely. You probably live halfway across the world.”

 **Grandma:** it isn’t so hard to touch u, haha! the vibration against your cunt right now is me, isn’t it? the fingers exploring ur chest?

 **Grandma:** you’re on 2 right? how many settings on that vibe?

“Five,” says Loki, and he isn’t smiling anymore, and the slick between his legs is leaking against the duvet.

 **Grandma:** go to 5. now.

Biting his lip, Loki presses the button three more times until the hum of the vibrator is loud enough to show up in his volume monitor. It’s sort of violent, now, powerful, buzzing against his lips and his leaking cock. He bucks his hips a bit, tries to squeeze his thighs tighter around it. “You,” he tries to say, “you clever…”

 **Grandma:** take off ur robe now honey i wanna see. work ur chest some more i don’t want u touching the vibe.

Loki does as told, baring himself for the camera, rubbing himself off, squirming in the light. He can almost sense the gaze on him. “Is this good?” he asks Grandma, “Is this what you want? You’re going to make me come.”

Usually Grandma manages to make him come, but rarely without stuffing Loki full of toys. This is different and the fact that Loki is falling apart for it is so _strange_ and new and exciting.

He pants, tilts his head back and shuts his eyes towards the ceiling, until he hears the beep of the next message. He looks again at the screen.

 **Grandma:** not yet

 **Grandma:** i was thinking i could give u a hand

Loki laughs breathlessly, “How do you mean, this time?" He’s barely staving off his orgasm, luxuriating in the pressure building up in his abdomen. For a moment there is no response from the chat box and Loki wonders if the man can come up with something clever to say, or if he’s too mystified by the sight of Loki’s naked body.

There is a knock on Loki’s bedroom door.

His body goes frigid. His blood turns to ice. “What-?” he breathes. The vibrator is still buzzing away between his legs and he fumbles to stop it. His fingers are shaking when he presses the slick button.

 _You were too complacent_ , he’s telling himself, among the sirens blaring warning in his head.

But this is _impossible._ He’s anonymous, he’s so anonymous and so careful, he uses a VPN, he bounces the signal… and the front door of his apartment is _locked._

 **Grandma:** go on, open it

 **Grandma:** i’m sure they wont bite

Another knock on the bedroom door, unmistakeably.

Loki clears his throat, trying to sound calm. “Who is it?”

 **Grandma:** oh lo-lo you’re a smart cookie, u can figure it out

 **Grandma:** come say hi and let me finish u off babe

Grandmaster has left the chat room

Loki shuts the computer. He gets up on shaky legs, his thighs slick, his robe helplessly discarded. He stumbles to the door, and he presses the little lock button on the handle.

Falls to his knees. Barricades himself against the door’s base.

Prays that the person on the other side doesn’t have an axe, or a gun, or isn’t strong enough to just barrel down the flimsy piece of wood.

Another knock on the door. A man’s voice, a stranger, sounding upbeat and cheerful: “Oh, Lo-Lo, come on. You just seemed so lonely, I couldn’t stay away!”

“Please-” but he chokes on his words, has to clear his throat again, frightened tears stinging at his eyes, “Please leave. I need you to leave. We can talk more online, maybe we can meet later-”

“Are you afraid of me touching you?” asks the man sweetly, “Loki, baby, we’re old pals! You can trust me to treat you nice.”

The doorknob is turning, rattling against the lock. Loki tucks his face in his knees, the panic setting in. “Please leave,” he begs, “don’t make me call the cops.”

He left his phone on the other side of the room and he can’t reach it now. Kicking himself for every little misstep and oh, oh he can’t breathe.

“Lo-Lo this isn’t really, uh, fun anymore. You know I’ll just get in there one way or another, can we please just, you know…”

The click of the lock releasing. The stranger must have picked it. The door beginning to open, and Loki braces his back against it to hold it in place, digs his heels into the carpet, _“Please!_ ” he shouts, _“_ Please leave!”

The force of it pushes Loki away. The man slips into the room and he’s a total stranger, a stranger who tracked Loki down, a stranger grinning down at him, where Loki is _naked and terrified_ and hyperventilating on the floor…

“I told you, Lo-Lo,” says the man, reaching down to him with both hands, “You’re my _fave,_ and I’m gonna take good care of you.”

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺


	7. Specimen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains very disturbing themes about racism and dehumanization.

En Dwi has a hypothesis.

_In which Loki is to be studied, academically._ That’s the parameter he gives the engine.

The hypothesis is this: if the engine defaults to using the memories of the passenger with the greatest volume of memories about a particular scenario, then the resulting universe will be Loki being studied by Taneleer on Knowhere, because En Dwi has the greatest volume of memories pertaining to specimen being academically studied thanks to his infrequent (but incalculably many) visits to Knowhere.

If, however, the engine produces something _other_ than a recreation of Knowhere, then the engine must use some other metric to determine which memories to use, like perhaps the intensity of emotion that one possible scenario might elicit over another.

That said, En Dwi is not a scientist. He was a philosopher, many lifetimes ago. A scientist would be dissatisfied with the construction of this experiment, so loose a thread ties the cause to the effect. Any of millions of variables could impact the experiment and make it impossible to draw an accurate conclusion.

But the philosopher is more concerned with just making a point.

↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺↺

A spare room in the multipurpose building has been converted into a classroom for the duration of their stay. This is where Thor and his few young classmates are gathered, waiting for their tutor to return with the day’s lesson. They are meant to be sitting in their chairs at the flat wooden desks, but it’s very hard for a band of future Asgardian warriors to sit still.

“When do you think we will have lunch?” asks Balder, tearing around the room to chase giggling, squealing Fandral.

“I can’t imagine why you should care, Balder,” Thor teases. “Just a few days ago, you were calling the colony-style food inedible.”

“I was a different man, then,” Balder jokes, “with an unrefined palette.”

Fandral interjects, “Last night Balder discovered that the colony mess serves mead on tap, and there’s no one comes to keep his grubby little child hands away from it.”

“Best enjoy it while you can, drunkard. We’re back across the Bifrost tomorrow night,” Thor reminds them.

Balder grins. “That’s why I asked when we will break for lunch?”

“Not for a few hours, yet,” moans Sif, lying flat on her back atop a desk with an arm flung over her eyes. “Longer still, if our tutor catches on that you’re too eager for lunch to pay attention to the lesson.”

Thor laughs. “Old Mimir won’t harp on Balder’s behavior, today of all days.”

“Why is that?” asks Balder.

“Don’t you two listen to anything?” Sif demands. “Mimir is bringing a live specimen, right out of the Academy’s stocks.”

Fandral stops his running, furrowing his brow at Sif. “I’ve been to the Academy on Asgard. They don’t keep live specimen. It’s all books.”

Sif lifts her arm from her face just high enough to narrow an eye in Fandral’s direction. “Why do you think we’re on the colony in the first place?”

“You’re right, Fandral,” Thor explains carefully, “they don’t keep live creatures on Asgard, because it would be too dangerous if any broke loose into the city. They established the campus on the colony to house those specimen in isolation from Asgard proper.”

“I hope this one breaks loose,” announces Balder, scrambling onto a desk, brandishing an imaginary sword, “I’ll beat it back before it can hurt Mimir or anyone else, and I’ll slit its throat like Volstagg showed me.”

Sif sits up, smirking. “Brave words,” she says, “but how will you pay for the damages owed the Academy, when you destroy their rarest specimen?”

Balder blanches, and the rest laugh, before dashing into their seats as the door starts to open.

Enter Mimir, an older Æsir tutor with white hair showing around his temples. Behind him he wheels a sort of moving pedestal, on which stands a frost giant.

The students watch the blue creature with suddenly nervous eyes, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. It is an alarming sight - none of them have ever seen a frost giant, except illustrated in the books read to them by their mothers and fathers.

Its body is lithe, and not so giant at all (though they listen peripherally as Mimir explains that this is a jotunn youth, not fully grown). Its thin wrists and ankles are bound in metal cuffs to a collection of dowels which seem to form something like an exoskeleton, holding the creature upright and still. Another metal cuff binds its throat, bracing its posture so it cannot move.

Its eyes are fully red like ruby jewels set into its face, and its expression is lax, tired. Non-aggressive.  Its skin is blue, but not blue like in the books - this is a deep bluish-grey like an ocean, broken only by pale geometric markings on the skin, and of course the scrap of sterile cloth covering its modesty.

For over an hour, Mimir lectures about the creature itself, the climate of Jötunheimr, and the lives of the Jötnar in the wild. Whenever Balder raises his hand, Mimir shuts his eyes impatiently and says again, _“_ Questions at the _end_ of the lesson, my student.”

Mimir tells them about the body temperature of the creature, and invites them to touch its skin. Sif, the boldest among them when she chooses to be, steps up first, and though she keeps a wide berth from the creature, she follows Mimir’s instructions to touch her bare fingers to its left forearm. Her eyes widen at the sensation of ice-like skin, but it doesn’t seem to hurt her, and her classmates follow suit.

Then Mimir discusses the acidity of the creature’s fluids, like its saliva, an adaptation to digesting what tough vegetation is able to grow in the frost plains. “Prince Thor, would you bring me a piece of parchment?”

Thor fetches a scrap of parchment and sets it upon the desk. Mimir reaches up with one hand, sets his thumb and forefinger on either side of the creature’s face, and pries the jaw open. The creature doesn’t seem to resist.

At first Mimir points out the teeth, the sharp double canines in the bottom row for rending flesh, the sturdy, blunt molars in the back of the mouth to handle vegetation. He makes a passing comment about the chemical composition of jotunn teeth, and then he brings a thin glass rod up to the creature's mouth, swabbing the inside with the rod without actually putting his fingers in danger of the creature’s bite.

Mimir brings the rod to the thin piece of parchment, rubbing the saliva onto it. It takes about a minute, but the students watch enraptured as the parchment turns dark brown and then black where the acid was, until eventually there is a hole.

The students agree amongst themselves, when Mimir’s back is turned, that this is the best lesson they’ve ever had.

 

Eventually Mimir invites questions, and four little white arms shoot into the air.

“Prince Thor.”

Thor drops his hand, lifting his chin. “Has it ever attacked anyone in the colony?”

Mimir smiles. “A question befitting the future king. As far as I am aware, no, it has been kept well under control. Sif?”

“Can it speak?” she asks.

Mimir shakes his head. “In the wild, yes, the Jötnar do have speech, but this one was rendered mute so as to be better suited to classroom instruction. If you look closely, you will see a small scar at the top of its chest, from when they performed that procedure. Fandral?”

Fandral asks, “Does it have a name?”

“Um,” hums Mimir, stepping backwards to peer down at some labels etched in the back of the pedestal. “I believe the researchers call it ‘Loki’. Balder?”

“Is it a male?”

Thor snorts. “Of course it’s a male, where are its breasts?” he says, before Sif thwacks him in the arm.

“Actually,” explains Mimir, “Jötnar do not have two distinct sexes. Most have both male and female reproductive organs.”

This perplexes Balder. “So it’s _both?”_

“That’s right. Are there other questions?”

The students sit there, speechless.

“In that case,” says Mimir, collecting his instruments, “you are all free to head to lunch. I am needed for a brief meeting with our transportation manager, and then I will meet you there. Whoever is last to leave the classroom, please shut the door behind you.” He begins to exit the room.

“Wait!” says Sif, standing from the desk. “What about the frost giant?”

Mimir says, “The other students will be having their lesson after lunch, so we can leave it here.” Then the tutor is gone.

There is a long stretch of silence among the classmates, still lingering in the classroom and exchanging uncomfortable glances. It feels like the creature is watching them - though, upon closer inspection, it seems to be staring blankly at the wall.

“Well,” Thor says eventually, “Balder, do you still want your drink?”

“I…” says Balder, uncertain, watching the creature.

Fandral stands, moving towards the front of the room to inspect the blue form. “Loki,” he says, not unkindly, to the creature, “can you hear me?”

Everyone jumps, when, through those red lenses, the eyes of the creature lock on Fandral.

“Don’t be stupid, Fandral, it’s going to eat you.”

“It’s not going to eat me. Did you hear what Mimir said about how it has an extra ribcage?”

“Does it?” Thor stands finally. Though he is the youngest of them in years, he has the most easygoing confidence, and he walks towards the frost giant without any hesitation. He places his palm flat on the creature’s icy stomach, feeling ridges of bone beneath the flesh which expand and contract with its slow, shallow breathing. “Interesting.”

“I suppose you shouldn’t aim there in a fight, like you could with an Æsir,” observes Sif.

Balder crosses his arms in front of himself. “Is it really both a boy and a girl?”

“Why, are you going to marry it?” teases Thor.

“I want to see.”

Sif makes a disgusted sound. “Don’t be a pervert, Balder.”

“I want to see, too,” says Fandral, stepping forward again. “That’s not… weird, is it? Like looking at the bits of a horse.”

Sif looks at Thor, perhaps because he’s the prince, and he shrugs. “It is a comparative anatomy lesson,” he says mildly, “best not to leave it incomplete.”

 

* * *

 

 

Loki’s conscious but it’s… hazy. Sedatives in the morning meal. Bracers around his throat and his limbs to keep him upright.

Usually they just leave him in his room, with the big window with the white faces that stare at him from the other side. When they take him out like this, there are always sedatives, and then he stands there for hours in the haze, listening to words like _Jötnar_ and _Jötunheimr_ till his body aches.

They touch him and they say his name sometimes. They put on gloves and inspect his mouth and between his legs. He kind of likes when they touch him. Contact with another living being. Most of the time they are gentle. Some of the researchers pet him when he stays still for them.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s surrounded by children. There had been an old man before, but now he’s gone and there’s these children here. Four little white bodies dressed in colorful, soft fabrics.

He doesn’t remember if he’s ever been around children before, but he does recognize them as such. He understands the language when the researchers speak, and they’ve discussed children before.

The children are talking about him. A little hot hand is pressed against his stomach - such soft skin, so different from the sticky gloves that usually touch him.

“Fandral,” says one of them, “take off the cloth.”

“Why must I be the one to do that?”

“You’re the eldest.”

So one of the children steps forward, and two hands come up to tug at and pull away the white sterile cloth from between Loki’s legs.

This is unusual. The researchers dress him in the cloth whenever they take him out of his room, but it’s always the same person who does it - the woman with the soft voice and the long, pretty orange hair that she lets him stroke. It’s always her, because he likes her the best, and the researchers know it.

These children don’t know how to do it. The child tugs roughly and the sensation of the cloth pulling away rubs uncomfortably at sensitive skin. Loki can’t move to make it more comfortable. He can’t move at all. He can hardly see the children, because his chin is kept raised on the metal cuff.

“Is that its… you know…?”

“I want to see - move, Fandral.”

“It’s rather small.”

“I suppose it must get cold, on the frost plains.”

“I dare you to touch it.”

“What? Don’t be silly.”

“I’ll do it - I want to see the rest of it.”

Their fingers are small, and hot-to-burning, especially when they touch the more sensitive skin there, Loki’s upper thighs. It’s hard to keep track of which hands belong to which child, when they’re all so close to him and he isn’t of clear mind to begin with.

They pry apart his legs, and Loki can’t move far with the braces around his ankles, he can’t shift to accommodate their probing, he tries to whine in discomfort but all that comes through his mouth is a breathy whisper of air. They just push apart the fatty flesh of his thighs enough to see what they want to see and he squirms.

It burns, and the researchers rarely touch him there, and it feels foreign.

They push the little protrusion of his cock up and out of the way, so they can peer behind it.

“Well, Sif?”

“What are you looking at me, for?”

“Of the four of us, you’ve likely got the best sense of what a girl’s bits look like.”

“Funny, I thought Fandral would be the expert on that.”

“Ha-ha. Really, Sif, what do you think?”

“What do I think? I think it’s got a vulva, alright? What are you looking for me to say, here?”

“What’s a vulva?”

“ _Norns,_ I’m surrounded by ignorant fools.”

The touching is making Loki dizzy, as his blood rushes to his lower abdomen.

They’re _children_ and that means their hands are _rough_ and demanding, pushing his body where they want, molding him around their hands. The researchers are gentle - the children are anything but, and the heat of their touch, and the -

“ _Ow!_ Ow, shit!”

The hands pull away. “What’s wrong, Balder? Do frost giant _quims_ bite, too?”

“It’s - something wet on my hand, it burns.”

“Oh, _shit_ we forgot. Go to the sink, Balder, wash it off.”

The sound of the spray of the faucet. Loki shifts in his bonds now that he isn’t being touched. Down there, his folds are… sticking uncomfortably, he wants to fix it, wants to move.

“What was that?”

“Acid, you dolt. Like the saliva.”

“Wait, it _peed_ on me?”

“ _No_ , it just, you know. Got wet. Right, Sif?”

“Don’t look at _me,_ I don’t - I don’t do that sort of thing! That’s for _adults_.”

Giggling. More conversation among the children. The sedation is fading, like a fog slowly filtering from Loki’s mind, and he looks around the room. Where is the man who brought him here? Or the researchers? Surely a researcher will come and take the children away - the researchers don’t like to upset Loki, they know when he is agitated, they try to calm him.

His captivity chafes, on the edges, but it isn’t wholly unpleasant.

Except for this. He doesn’t like… this. Not being able to move, while those little white fingers inspect him so roughly in his most sensitive parts.

And yet he wants… he wants…

A snapping sound, of latex. Loki knows that sound.

“Thor, where did you find those?”

“In the desk drawer. Do you want the left one, Fandral? I only found one pair.”

“Sure, I - sure.” Another snapping sound.

The fingers are purple, now. Wrinkly, because the gloves are too large for their hands. But they probe more deliberately, now, because they are less nervous. Collaborating to pull apart the lips until Loki keens towards the ceiling.

“Look at that. That’s strange, the color.”

“Makes sense. Dark blue.”

“Dark blue where a lady is pink.”

“Don’t be gross, you two.”

“Is it - is it warm?”

“I think that was just the burning, Balder. This feels - cool.”

A covered wrist nudges against Loki’s cock, hardening. He squirms in his bonds. The researchers don’t touch him here, he’s the only one who touches himself, it never feels like this, and the little hands are warm -

“It’s wetter.”

“It happens. Poor, uh, Loki must be rather lonely, don’t you think? I doubt they have other frost giants.”

A laugh. “Oh Fandral, ever the romantic.”

A finger nudging inside - _inside_ \- and Loki violently flinches, throws himself back. That’s never - it felt strange, it was too hot, it burned.

A warm hand takes the side of his torso, steadying him. A soft voice, “Alright, alright. Shhh…”

“Thor, it’s not a horse.”

“Leave me alone, Sif.”

“Does it - does it have another, you know. In the back? Like a person?”

“Would you like to check, Balder?”

“I don’t want to touch it again.”

“I’ll look.” A body shifts behind Loki, where the metal rods hold him up. Hands push apart the fatty flesh - Loki bucks forward, instinctively, with an exhalation that would have been a whine. It’s overwhelming. “Aye,” says the child, laughing, “it does. It’s funny looking.”

Fingers grasp gently, around Loki’s cock, and another soundless breath bubbles out of Loki’s throat. “Does that feel nice?” asks a voice, “Poor lonely creature.”

“Alright, Fandral’s in love with it. Time to go.”

“I’m not in _love_ with it!”

“Sif has a point. We’ve wasted half of lunch break.” The snap of gloves removed, and discarded on the table. The fingers pull away from Loki’s cock despite the way he tries to buck forward, savor it.

“We should make Balder drunk for afternoon lessons.”

“You could certainly try,” a laugh, “but I’ve got a strong stomach.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Four little bodies hesitate in the doorway, watching Loki from afar. Loki is breathing harshly, still, and squirming, wetness dripping down between his thighs.

No one had ever touched him like that before. After these children leave, no one ever will.

With the sedation fading, some of that old sadness and anxiety re-saturates his body, the loneliness, the isolation, the need to get _out._ He throws himself against the bonds.

“It’s sad,” says one of the children, softly. “Norns, it’s just so… so pathetic.”

“Let’s, um. Let’s find one of the researchers in the mess, tell them to give it a treat or something tonight. It deserves one.”

“Alright.”

The door shuts. The room is empty.

 

Loki doesn’t remember the frost plains. This facility is all he remembers. That little room. The woman with the pretty red hair. The white faces in the window.

He’ll be here forever.

He wants to moan, to cry out, to make noise. All that comes out is air, and the rattling sound when he throws himself against the restraints. They took his - they took his _voice_ away, he wants it back. He wants it all back.

He used to sing to himself when he was nervous - little moans, they didn’t mean anything to anyone. The sound was comforting. The babble. He can’t.

His body throbs, where they had touched him. That warm hand on his torso, _Alright, alright. Shhhh…_

Come back. He wants them to come back, they’ll never come back.

Breathing too fast. His vision swims, dizzy. He wants to cry.

 

The door opens. In walks a man, wearing all dark blue fabric. A custodian. He brings a mop and a bucket on wheels.

When the door shuts, the custodian leaves the bucket and mop by the entrance. He walks right up to Loki, with a crooked smile on his golden brown face. Loki’s never seen this custodian before - Loki knows the researchers and everyone who works in the facility, he recognizes them. Not this one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” says the man. “I was watching that little show of yours.”

Loki tries desperately to calm his breathing, so he can hear the man over the rush of blood in his ears. _inoutinout in out in out in… out…_ the man is smiling and making eye contact.

_“Who are you?”_ Loki tries to ask, as loudly as he can manage, but it only comes out as a breathy, half-coherent whisper.

“Oh, no surprise you don’t recognize me,” says the man, “I’ve only been here for about a week. You see, I uh, I’m a _custodian._ At least, they think I’m a custodian.”

The man picks up one of the discarded latex gloves off of the table, and he sniffs it.

“Want me to spring you?” he asks. “I’ve, uh, I’ve got this nice thing going, me and my transporter friend. I get temp jobs till I find a sweet little morsel to liberate, and she drives me to the next galaxy in her big rig amongst the regular cargo. Sweet deal. Not free, but uhhh I think she’d be just as happy with you instead of cold hard cash this go around. You in?”

_“Where?”_ Loki wheezes out.

“Anywhere. Pretty boy blue, I’ll take you anywhere you want. We’ll get you some nice clothes, a passport… I bet I could even find a surgeon to fix that little, uh, operation you had there.” The man’s hot fingers press against the scar on Loki’s chest, and Loki trembles.

_“Yes,”_ whispers Loki, _“Please, yes-”_

“Hold on, gorgeous,” says the man. “There’s a condition. We’ve still gotta, um, pay my friend somehow. You’ll probably have to share your pretty body with her. Fair trade, isn’t it? A little roll in the hay, for passage across galaxies?”

_“I don’t know how to-”_

“I’ll show you, baby. It’ll be great.”

 

At the back doorway, where slick tile floor changes to asphalt and gravel, Loki stops.

The custodian turns. “Well, come on, sweet thing. It’s this way.” But whatever he sees on Loki’s face makes him falter. “What’s wrong?”

Loki licks his lips. The air tastes different. He looks down at his feet.

He steps onto the asphalt. It feels… warm, and a little bit wet.

He smiles at the custodian. Beyond the man is the open expanse of the world. A sky, orange and hazy. The ground, deep red dirt and black streets. Enormous round structures floating slightly above the earth. They are… spaceships. He is going to go… inside of one, and fly away.

“Well?” The custodian offers his hand. Loki reaches out his own, and they meet, and the man leads him the rest of the way, the tarmac hard and strange under Loki’s bare feet.

 

The man knocks on the door to the cockpit of the freighter. From the other side, a voice: “Busy, Gast.”

The man grins. “I know you’re busy, honey, I brought you a friend to help.” To Loki he says, in a whisper, “she’s a little _frustrated_ , her species goes through these, uh, _ruts_ sometimes and they have a hard time handling their urges.”

Loki says nothing and tries to look like he understands.

The door opens. It smells… sweaty and pungent, nothing like the sterility of the Academy. It’s dark. There is a chair in front of a wheel and a bunch of colorful displays.

In the chair sits a tall being, with a snout and horns. Muscled torso, dark fuzzy skin. Enormous… erect… phallus… that the person is stroking rhythmically with their huge, thick hand.

One of the displays is a screen. Two bodies displayed on the screen, wet, moving together. Moaning.

A hand on Loki’s back shoves him forward so he stumbles closer to the bull-person. Alarmed, Loki turns around to stare at the custodian.

_“You said woman,”_ whispers Loki, over a spike of fear.

The man giggles. “Ohhhh, oh, kitten, you thought? Look at you, making assumptions. Like you didn’t learn anything from that comparative anatomy lesson. Tsk.”

She had been braced with one hooved foot against the dashboard. She lowers it now, shifting to affix Loki with her pointed gaze. “Weak,” she huffs out, dismissively. “Will break. Gast is an idiot.”

“No,” Gast grins, “No, no I’m not. Tell her, Loki, tell her where you want to go.”

Loki frowns. _“Anywhere,”_ he breathes.

The bull raises an eyebrow at him - it’s strange to see a face like hers so expressive. “You are a fugitive.”

“You’d think the fact that he’s still naked would give it away. Unless you thought he was just… ready for you?”

Suddenly - a siren wails. Loki flinches, crumples to his knees on the metal riveted floor. Red lights around the building. The woman curses, and pulls a lever that shuts the door behind Gast.  “We go now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Oh, En Dwi likes this game.

In deep space, the Nakomian captain, Ata, lets go of the controls, letting the ship cruise. She nods at En Dwi before passing him, squeezing through the hallway to the back room, the little mattress and pillows and blankets they hid inside an empty shipping crate, easily disguised among the full ones transporting goods to the next system. There is a light, inside the makeshift bedroom, and the warm glow illuminates soft blue skin - Loki has been sleeping off the tail end of the sedation. He stirs when Ata kneels on the bed with him.

En Dwi steps closer, just to keep an eye on it all. He wants to watch.

He thought Loki would be far more afraid, but the little blue creature just seems open, accepting of the unknown. It helps that Ata is trying to be gentle. “Pretty,” she says, running fingers down his side. “I will touch you, get you ready.”

He opens up for her. Like he’s never been touched before, like all he wants is contact. He lies back in the sheets and he opens his legs and he watches her through red-lensed eyes like she holds the answers to the universe.

When she nuzzles her snout against his mound, his whole body tenses, and he wheezes out a breath. It seems like pleasure.

“You don’t mind if I…?” En Dwi asks mildly, stepping past Ata to squeeze himself in at the head of the bed. He kneels there, and presses a palm gently against Loki’s cool forehead. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re being so brave,” he croons, “what a brave boy.”

Loki’s trembling lower lip curves into a smile, and isn’t that just _heartwrenching._

When Ata licks him, with that thick cow-tongue, his back arches, and he grunts, if it can be called a grunt.

And then he’s taking two of her fingers, and eventually three. At the widest part, his thigh is only as thick as her fist - she _dwarfs_ him, and the three fingers are thicker inside of him than any proportionally sized cock would be - his face is slack, his mouth open, his eyes screwed tight, staccato breaths through his nose.

“Tight,” observes Ata conversationally, though her voice is a little heavier than usual.

“Virgin,” En Dwi whispers back with a wink.

“Mmm,” she hums, furrowing her brow, and then she leans in to lick him again, carefully getting him wetter and wetter.

It isn’t until she presses her cockhead against him that Loki seems to realize what is going to happen. His eyes widen. _“No,”_ he wheezes, almost scrambling away but for Ata’s firm hand gripping his hip. She’s patient, not forcing herself, but she isn’t going to wait long. She looks at En Dwi, expectantly. Loki’s fist tangles in En Dwi’s shirt. _“Too big,”_ he breathes to En Dwi, eyes begging him to understand.

Calmly, En Dwi asks him, “Do you want to go back to the Asgardians?”

Loki shrinks, shaking his head no.

En Dwi’s palm against his hair, stroking him calm. “You’ll be fine, blue,” he tells him. “You can take it. I’m right here.”

It is fascinating to watch, when she breaches him. On the one hand, Loki’s face is in utter rapture, otherworldly, his jaw open wide, a high sound coming out of him like a tea kettle, acid tears dripping down the sides of his face. On the other, the skin around the Nakomian cock, slick, stretched so thin, deep blue. It is only by a generous burst of En Dwi’s magic that Loki’s body doesn’t tear from the strain. Ata’s cock only barely fits in the cup of jotunn pelvic bone.

She shivers above Loki’s body, reaching her own bliss, a little pleasured snort when she’s fully inside. “Cold,” she remarks.

Out, and then in. At the second thrust, Loki breathes out something like a cry of pain, and he covers his face with his arms. But Ata’s hand leaves his hip to stroke gently across his chest, to circle around a nipple, her tongue licking a long stripe up the side of his throat. His body relaxes again into the pleasure. Out, and then in.

Afterwards, when Ata is finished, Loki doesn’t move. He is pliant, a puddle of skin and bones laid out in her bed, her seed dribbling out from between his legs. She kisses the tender inside of his thigh once, before murmuring, “Good,” and then leaving for the cockpit.

Again, En Dwi brushes the hair out of Loki’s face, and those red eyes blink up at him, bleary and tired. “Hey, pretty boy. You did good.”

A little smile. The little blue creature is so trusting.

En Dwi reaches down to scoop a handful of wet from between Loki’s legs. Loki’s gaze follows his hand lazily, as En Dwi studies the substance and then takes a nice big lick of it. It tastes… fruity, salty, delicious, and he loves the way Loki’s pupils dilate at the sight of him.

“Next, huh?” En Dwi says eventually, caressing that pretty blue face, “Let’s move on to the next.”

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if u want more  
> shoutout to the frostmaster discord for everything  
> my tumblr is [here.](http://mitzvahmelting.tumblr.com)


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